


The Shadow of Angmar

by Steelbadger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dimension Travel, F/M, Gen, Immortal Harry Potter, Pre-The Hobbit, Third Age, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 213,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23628394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steelbadger/pseuds/Steelbadger
Summary: The Master of Death is a dangerous title; many would claim to hold a position greater than Death. Harry is pulled to Middle-earth by the Witch King of Angmar in an attempt to bring Morgoth back to Arda. A year later Angmar falls and Harry is freed, but the wounds inflicted during his time in Angmar's dungeons run deep. He wishes only to return home, but that road is long and twisting, and fraught with danger.Begins 1000 years before LotR.
Comments: 100
Kudos: 272
Collections: LOTR FF





	1. Prologue: From the Depths of Angmar

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to The Shadow of Angmar.
> 
> Before we begin, I'd like to talk about how this story works with regards to Tolkien Canon (The Silmarillion, The Hobbit, and the Lord of the Rings, in addition to some of Tolkien's other unfinished works). In general, I try to adhere as closely as possible to the world as established by Tolkien. This means I will be attempting to mirror his translation convention when non-understood languages are being used. Additionally, some languages will be used that were not given much expansion by Tolkien himself, primarily the Black Speech, and Khuzdul, the language of the Dwarves. For those languages I will be leaning on 'Neo-Black Speech' (from the now sadly defunct TheLandOfShadow.com) and 'Neo-Khuzdul' (from TheDwarrowScholar.com).
> 
> In addition to language, I will be using or referencing a number of 'canon' characters who are only mentioned in passing within Tolkien's written work. I will attempt as far as possible to stay true to that which Tolkien did specify, but where I have to add or extrapolate, I will generally explain my choices in an author's note at the end of the chapter. It is my hope that a knowledge of Tolkien's works are not required in order to understand this story, there is certainly no requirement to know the name of King Théoden's great-great-great-great-great grandfather in order to understand the plot of the story.
> 
> Anyway, lets dive into it!

Leaden skies turned slowly overhead as Eärnur, Prince of Gondor, stood in the befouled courtyard of Carn Dûm, the fortress stronghold of Angmar. It was in this place that the final hard fought victory had been won by Gondor and its allies. The evil that had so beset their northern kin had at last been cast down. Though the armies of Gondor had arrived too late to save the dúnedain of the north from a cruel fate at the hands of the Witch King they had avenged their suffering. The loss of all those who'd attempted to hold against the dark tide that had fallen upon them from the North had not gone unanswered.

Long ago Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anárion had come to Middle-earth after the great island of Númenor and the nation it supported had been sunk beneath the waves by the wrath of the Valar. Two Kingdoms they established in the years after the Fall, Arnor in the North and Gondor in the South. For long years both had been ruled by those of the line of Elendil the Tall and stayed close in alliance. It pained him that the army from Gondor had come too late, his kin had been massacred at Fornost and scattered to the winds. The battle had been won though many had been wounded. The Elves of Rivendell had sent a force to join with that of Gondor and their combined might was far beyond the strength of Angmar to contest in open battle.

Now he just needed to deal with the foul pestilence of evil that had seeped so deep into the earth of this place. For more than 500 years Angmar had been a bastion of darkness ever lingering at the northern reaches of the world. That darkness could not be quickly nor wholly undone. So now Eärnur stood ready to pass judgement and give aid to those captured or freed who were brought before him.

Beside him stood Glorfindel of Rivendell, one of the greatest Elf-Lords of the age and the leader of the Elvish contingent in the army that had finally laid low the great threat of Angmar and its Witch King.

The battle had been long and hard fought. Many Men and Elves had falled in the battle or had been dealt a mortal injury, none who made it through had escaped the horror created by the mere presence of the Witch King. Eventually though the forces of Angmar had been broken, the walls cast down and the Witch King put to flight.

It galled Eärnur all the more that the greatest Enemy of his people in that Age had been allowed to escape. He had fled upon his black steed as Glorfindel's prophetic words stayed the pursuit of the Prince of Gondor. He now much regretted not ignoring those words. If ever he had another opportunity to lay the Witch King low then he vowed he would take it. Seeing the inside of the citadel of Carn Dûm was enough to draw that promise from him.

The dungeons were filled with wretched things, twisted and horrifying. Eärnur had seen great Lords and experienced soldiers come up from those dungeons ghostly pale and shaking with harrowing remembrance. Women and babes held in such squalid conditions and under such cruelty that mothers had come at last to killing their own children in desperation. The little bones left scattered about the corners of noisome cells while the broken parents wept and wailed as they begged for death.

He had not visited the dungeons himself, though Glorfindel had. He had heard enough to populate his nightmares for all the remaining years of his life. He had no wish to go looking for more. This was one case where he would welcome his own ignorance with open arms.

He was told that they had found something, something that the Prince of Gondor needed to see. It had been Glorfindel who had found it and the ages old Elf-Lord had been shaken by what he'd seen in the ugly depths of the dark dungeons.

A young man, in the very bowels of the deepest of the dungeons with the Witch King's strongest and foulest servants guarding the many locked doors that barred him from the sickly light that passed for day in Angmar. Glorfindel would say no more on the matter, merely that it would be for Eärnur to decide his fate.

Glorfindel would say no more, but the Men who had been with him bowed to Eärnur's request for more information. They described a cell filled with clinging blackness. A smell of death that hung in the air and stayed with them for hours after they left. Dark blood in dry rivulets spread across the floor and black spatters over the slick and slimy walls. A man, a skeleton within a bag of still living flesh. Eyes that shone with green fire in the dark, alight with hatred and pain.

He saw this person for the first and only time then, escorted between four Elvish guards, each skilled in arms as was common among their people. He was fairly tall for a man not of the line of Elendil and if it wasn't for his hunched posture he would surely be a few inches taller than Eärnur. Yet that was not what drew the eye. His black hair was patchy, as if chunks had been torn from his scalp. What remained was crusted in blood and dirt and other nameless things. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull and from within baleful emerald green eyes stared out at the world around him. He was nothing but skin and bones, his body like that of a plague victim minutes from their final death. His skin was sallow and grey and hung from him like wet leather. At his wrists were black blisters, sores and blood where the chains of Angmar had bit deeply and without mercy.

He was altogether repugnant and utterly pitiable.

The guards and their charge came to a stop before the Crown Prince and his Elvish advisor and Eärnur asked, "Who are you? What is your name?"

The grim still living skull before him opened its mouth to speak and inside he could see that most of the teeth that had once been within had been shattered or torn out. The man spoke. "Bugduga Harry Potter."

The Black Speech, it should not have been a surprise as it was the chief language of Angmar under the Witch King and yet still Eärnur drew his breath in shock. The words slithered across his skin and all in the courtyard caught glimpses and visions of old pain as Harry Potter's words wormed into their darkest thoughts. The Prince glanced at Glorfindel who immediately spoke up.

"We would not hear that foul tongue in this place ever again, Harry Potter," he said with steel in his tone, his bearing that of a true Elf Lord. "We would have you use Westron such as is used by the civilised folk of the North."

"Paashnar pukhl Westron." said the prisoner in the words of Sauron. Eärnur understood a little of the spoken language, enough to know that the man claimed not to speak Westron. He once again looked to Glorfindel who was bristling at the continued use of the tongue of Mordor.

"Yet you understand the words of Westron, that much is clear" said the Elf Lord tightly. "Therefore you may speak them, speak them now."

The prisoner grimaced as if the idea caused him physical pain. "Not… Speak… Westron… Pain." Each word came as his dredged from the darkest of pits and hit body shook in remembrance of an old torment.

"Then what language do you speak that is fit for utterance outside of the darkest shadows?" Glorfindel asked harshly, as harshly as Eärnur had ever seen from him.

The wretched prisoner recovered from the pain of his words in Westron and was utterly unmoved by the anger of the Elf Lord and met his blazing eyes without visible reaction. "Tugpukhl Morghashnum," he said blankly.

Glorfindel was soon to lose his temper, Eärnur could see. He could see some small measure of the torment that had been inflicted upon the one before them. He did not wish for the Elf Lord to become wroth in the face of it even if it seemed the man before them was carved from stone. "Where are you from that you never learned any other tongue?" he asked loudly to stay his advisor from his wrath.

Harry Potter then turned his dead eyes to Eärnur and said, "Shulgnar latu iist."

Eärnur felt a shiver run down his spine at that gaze. It was as cold and as dead as tombs yet there was a fire there, dark and foul, that flickered just below the surface.

"We would not know?" asked Glorfindel worriedly, "How came you here then?"

"Ulu thrakutuz-izish zastazgu dush-sha" said Harry. Eärnur's knowledge of the Black Speech failed him then, he knew there was something about Harry being brought but he could not get the detail.

The Prince turned to Glorfindel for help, "Would you translate his words for me as I fear my knowledge of the Black Speech is not sufficient for any true dialogue?"

Glorfindel nodded tightly. "I will, Prince. I am not so knowledgeable in that foul tongue as others but I know enough to understand his meaning in this. He says only that he was brought here by magic." He then turned back to the prisoner. "What kind of magic?"

"Tug iin gashanu ghashutuz," said Harry and again Eärnur did not understand. It was something about words, to speak, he could not gather the meaning. Glorfindel did.

"He says he can only remember the words they spoke," he translated for Eärnur's benefit before he turned back to the creature. He asked forcefully, "What did they speak, what words did they use to summon you here?"

"Bugd za stazgu durb-matum-ob!" began Harry, reciting words that had been ingrained upon his consciousness since his arrival in this place. "Kulat amub matum agh gashnatub bûrzum fitgu."

Glorfindel went pale at the dark words but Eärnur had no idea what they could mean. Something to do with Death or being Master, he was not sure. Before he could ask for a full translation though the Elf told him. "They attempted to summon Morgoth to Middle-earth. They summoned 'One Greater than Death' to lead the darkness to their final victory." The Elf's words had an edge of shock to them, echoed in his pale face.

That had not been the answer Eärnur expected. It was known that the Witch King of Angmar employed many foul sorceries in his fights against the northern Kingdom of Arnor and the successor kingdoms of Arthedain, Rhudaur and Cardolan. The Barrow-downs of Cardolan had been left infested with foul dead things upon its fall. Barrow-wights the Men called them and none know how they had come to be. Spirits of the dead, some said. Eärnur had expected something similar here, yet this was altogether more dire.

The man before them was certainly no Morgoth so obviously the spell had not worked as the Witch King had wished. It did mean they owed this man much, even if his actions were unknowing. His torture would no doubt have been terrible if he had so ruined the plans of Morgoth's servants.

"I can't imagine they were happy when they did not get their way," said Eärnur in sympathy. "But why did they keep you, what were they planning?"

"Narkuluzut," said Harry with a viciously cynical smile, the first true expression Eärnur had seen from him in all their conversation. His cracked and broken lips spread wide and split open at they stretched into the unaccustomed expression. Blood rose from them and coated his blackened and broken teeth. "Nargzabuzut-izish mauk latu."

Eärnur guessed that this was something about fighting but again he could not understand the words fully. Glorfindel did and became tense again at what the Prince decided must have been a threat of some sort. The Elf put his hand to the blade at his side and demanded in steely tones, "And will you?"

The prisoner held Glorfindel's gaze once again for far longer than any mortal man should have the ability to manage. "Narlaguzut-izish. Narkû maukub ul-ûr," he said eventually and the glimmering fire concealed so deep within him burst out for a moment and it seemed his eyes glowed with green flames just as the men who had found him had said.

His hand did not move from the blade as Glorfindel shot back, "That does not answer the question, will you fight against us?"

"Narmaukub lat. Ghung nardiisub-izish," said Harry after another long moment.

Satisfied, though evidently still not happy Glorfindel removed his hand from his sword hilt. Eärnur had been unable to follow the exchange and so asked, "What did you just discuss, I apologise, I was unable to follow."

"They wished to use him to fight us," Glorfindel explained. "I asked if he would follow their wishes. He said he would not fight for them, but he did not say he would not fight against us. I challenged him and he agreed not to pit himself against us, if we do not attack him first."

"Why would they go to so much effort over one man?" asked Eärnur in confusion. The man before him was barely more than a corpse and certainly did not have the bearing of one who was to be feared upon the field of battle.

"Kul dushatâr," said Harry then spitefully he continued, "kuluz dushatâr."

Eärnur could guess at the meaning of that. A 'dushatâr' was a magic user, a Wizard such as Saruman or Mithrandir, or sorcerer such as had inhabited Angmar or Rhûn in some numbers. Such people flocked to the Witch King who offered them power such that few had ever known.

"You are no Istari," said Glorfindel firmly, a statement that was obvious to all who looked on. "You are a sorcerer?"

The man shrugged and said simply, "Akh."

That much the Prince did know. 'Yes'. But that still did not explain much. "There were many sorcerers in Angmar," said Eärnur as he voiced his thoughts. "Why did you get such specific treatment, why not just kill you?"

"Nargzabuzut-izish krampûrz," said Harry and again the fire and hatred returned and Eärnur could see it ready to burst into new flame below the blank visage. "Narpaashuzut lag-izish."

Eärnur looked at Glorfindel for a translation as he could not puzzle out the meaning this time.

"He says they wanted him loyal," said the Elf Lord and his anger seemed to be making way to sympathy. "He says they could not manage break him."

That in itself was painful for Eärnur to hear for surely the Witch king had not been kind when the once young man had so defied him.

"How long did they hold you?" he asked despite not truly wanted to know.

"Ran gakrul," said Harry confirming Eärnur's concerns. 12 months was as long as it had been since Arthedain had finally fallen. Could it be that the man had been captured at the Battle of Fornost, when the last defiance in the North had been snuffed out? He knew the man stated he spoke no other language but who knew the horrors that could be inflicted upon one in such a long time under the darkness of Angmar?

"What did they do to you?" he asked in quiet horror, knowing the answer he was sure to receive.

"Nuluzut-izish," Harry said simply as if it was of no consequence, though Eärnur did not understand. "Akuzut-izish, ghaashuzut-izish. Kuluzut nartor-izishu." The broken and bloody smile returned and Eärnur was forced to look away from the foulness it showed.

"What did he say Lord Glorfindel?" Eärnur asked in some trepidation.

"He says they hurt him," said the Elf blankly as he was lost in the suffering of the one before them. "He says they cut him, burned him."

It was much as Eärnur had expected. He looked again at the wretched human before him. His youth stolen from him and suffering and pain beyond what any man should have to endure thrust upon him in its stead.

"Your suffering is at its end, we would aid you if we can," said Eärnur though he knew from looking at the man that even the crafts of the Elves would be unable to keep him long in this world. His body was broken many times over and that his mind and spirit yet endured was a cruel miracle beyond any Eärnur had ever known. "Would you have our aid?"

"Latu-izish mâdrub?" Harry asked, the very weakest beginnings of surprise appearing on his face. It was obvious that he had been kept so long by the cruelty of the Witch King that he expected no kindness to ever come to him from others. "Nargzab ukhu mokh."

This time Glorfindel guessed that Eärnur would need a translation and immediately supplied it. "He wishes to be released," the Elf said, "he says he just wants to go home."

Eärnur's brow furrowed. "How would you do that if you don't know where it is?" he asked in some confusion.

"Iistnar amol," said the Harry firmly and now the light in his eyes was impossibly stoic and grim. "Gimbub ogh."

"He does not know how," explained Glorfindel without prompting. "He simply says he will find a way."

From many that would seem a weak pronouncement, yet from Harry it was as powerful as the rage of the great dragons of the elder age. For a moment Eärnur felt that the foundations of the earth would be shaken loose by Harry's quest if he felt it was necessary. That moment passed quickly though for it was obvious that the man before them would not last in this world much longer and had no strength within him to conduct such mighty deeds.

There was a more pressing concern. "If we release you how can we be sure you will not seek out another dark master?" asked Eärnur. This was a man so thoroughly touched by darkness it seemed to have consumed him entirely. His body was broken and foul, his words Black and an affront to all who heard them. The darkness was loath to let go once it had ensnared any soul so completely.

A terrible anger flashed in Harry's eyes. "Narurzkû gaiub-izish," he said forcefully and it seemed the sky darkened at his words, evidence finally of the power the Witch King had wished to control. "Nartuglub-izish gimbat bûrzum, ghashdurb-izish ta."

"He swears he will not seek the darkness," said Glorfindel when Harry had finished speaking. "He says he will never be chained again."

Eärnur could believe the man's certainty in this matter for his blazing sunken eyes were near burning through Eärnur's own. Yet it did not sit well with him that one so hurt should simply be left to fend for themselves.

"How would you survive?" the Prince asked. "You are weak and injured and in need of aid."

"Slaiub." Harry said simply and with a painful looking shrug of his cut, burned and scarred shoulders.

The meaning of that was clear enough but Glorfindel translated anyway. "He says he will live."

Eärnur still was not happy but was unwilling to confine the Man again to spend his last days among the healers. A year of captivity was enough. He would be allowed to leave and the Prince hoped Harry would find his last days peaceful in the wilds beyond the evils of Carn Dûm.

"Then we will provide you with clothes and food and you shall be allowed to leave," he said after a moment's thought. "We will not hold you here against your wishes."

The man then bowed to Eärnur, the few long tangled clumps of hair he still had falling forward as he did so. "Narnûlubat."

"He says he will not hurt you, Lord Eärnur," said Glorfindel before continuing sadly, "It is the closest the Black Tongue has to a thanks."

Eärnur nodded in acceptance to Harry then commanded the guards release him and show him some brief comforts, as much as could be found within the recently defeated ruin of Carn Dûm.

He watched as Harry was lead away and he couldn't help but stare at him in sorrow. Seeing the broken and tortured man walk away with a strength he should certainly not have possessed Eärnur knew that death was much preferable to being at the mercy of the Witch King.

"Are you sure that is wise?" asked Glorfindel once the man had left. "He will not long survive in the wilds, surely it would be best if we kept him here?"

Eärnur shook his head. "I will not confine him any more," he said sadly. "You can see as well as I that he cannot have many days left to him, I would not have him spend them in what he would see as captivity. Let him pass on while breathing the free air."

Both allies had seen such people before, much to their sadness. Those who had held on through unspeakable torture by means beyond the ken of any man. When finally they were freed it was like they no longer felt the need to fight and would pass on within days, even with the best of care.

"I can accept your reasoning," said Glorfindel sadly. Such absolute decrepitude was unknown among Elvenkin for any Elf who was forced to endure such torture would fade by their own choice and go to the Halls of Mandos in the Shining West before they could be brought so low. "Yet I cannot shake the feeling that I have not yet seen the last of him. Perhaps we should at least assign someone to watch him to ensure that no more devilry befalls him before his passing."

"I will not question your foresight," said Eärnur reasonably for he had come to know Glorfindel as the wisest of counsels. "Perhaps there is one among your Elves light-footed and stealthy enough to follow him without being seen?"

"I think Daewen would be up to the task," said Glorfindel after a moment's thought, "she is the most stealthy of all our scouts but is not incapable at the healing arts."

"Make sure she knows to let him pass if the cold grip comes for him," said Eärnur sadly, "she should not lengthen his suffering, it has been long enough already and I do not believe anything in Middle-earth could lessen it."

"She will understand," said Glorfindel as he nodded in agreement. "Elves understand the pain of suffering. It is why we call your death the Gift of Men. Had he been an Elf he would have no recourse now but eternal anguish and pain, never to be dulled by the passage of time."

Eärnur silently agreed. Sometimes death was truly the kinder fate.

o-o

Daewen trod with the lightest of footfalls through the dark woods of eastern Angmar. Her sharp Elf ears attuned to the sounds of her quarry. The laboured breathing, the thrumming straining heart-beat, the pained gasps, the creak of withered bones and joints. None were pleasant sounds to an Elf.

Never had she felt so close to death as now, even in the most dire of battles. It seemed that death walked beside the man she had been asked to follow and yet still refused to claim him. What a cruel fate to be so very close to final peace yet unable to grasp it.

The thought of death was alien to Elves yet it had always held a certain fascination for those who'd seen more of the world than most. All around them things fell and decayed as the Elves stayed evergreen, unchanged by time. The pain felt as the world slowly died about them was an old fear for all Elves and the main reason they'd nearly succumbed to the lure of Sauron and his Rings of Power.

The power to sustain the beauty they saw about them through the ages was an ability the Elves valued above any other. To hide themselves from the decay and the grief of loss was a gift beyond any known upon Arda. Yet there was no joy in the continued life of the man before her.

When first she had seen him she had thought him dead already, little more than a sack of bones that had not yet succumbed to the pull of the earth. But he was not dead. Somehow, through some foul trick of the Witch King he still gripped to life with his cold skeletal fingers.

More than a week now, she'd been following his meandering path through the wilderness. Her commander had told her they did not expect her charge to survive more than a few days at most, yet here he was. Somehow pushing onwards a week after his release from the cells of Carn Dûm, every staggering step looked like it might be his last. Still he went on.

He looked no better. He could barely eat the soft foods that had been given to him upon his parting. So long had he been starved of sustenance that it seemed his body now distrusted and rejected it. His first meal had been thrown up, his second too. After that he had taken to eating very little indeed throughout the day. At least he was able to drink, though the small amount of miruvor granted to him in pity still brought him to dry retching.

After the first day Daewen had considered ending his suffering herself, even if the thought had only been in passing. Such a stark reminder of the cruelty of Middle-earth and the fate of its denizens was painful to behold. She did not act on those thoughts, she would not kill someone so wretched, so utterly deserted by the Valar.

So instead she watched him and she listened. He had been granted enough food to last at least two weeks and with his meagre rate of consumption she believed he would stretch it to much longer than that. Despite having no shortage of food he spent much time foraging for herbs and fungus. Some she recognised, such as the athelas he collected in small quantities. Others were worthless to all, even poisonous. She wondered if perhaps he was intending to end his own suffering by that poison.

He did not. His weathered joints continued to creak like old trees in the wind, his breath still rattled from his lungs all too slow, his heart still beat weakly in his chest, still not content to give up even after so much suffering.

Every morning she was sure that this would be the day when he would not be getting back up yet every morning he did. He would groan in pain and sway perilously as his weak muscles attempted to keep him upright yet still he would stand. Merely seeing the man, Harry Potter, stand was a humbling experience. For an eternally youthful Elf such infirmity was utterly unknown. The strength of the will that drove the body before her must have been absolute.

He was slowly making his winding way towards the Misty Mountains, for what reason she could not guess. When walking he would on occasion talk to himself in a tongue she did not recognise. It was not the Black Speech which she had been told was his sole language. She supposed the unknown words might simply be the gibberish muttered by a fevered mind hovering ever closer to death.

Perhaps his path was chosen simply because the Mountains were the most obvious feature upon the horizon. It seemed to Daewen that he had no real knowledge of where he was or where he was going. Lord Glorfindel had said as much when she had been given this unpleasant task.

It was a concern though, the Misty Mountains were not safe for such a weak and vulnerable traveller. Even an experienced Elvish warrior such as her would need to be on her guard in those high peaks.

Her fears were soon realised. A pack of wargs from the mountains attacked in the night, the huge sentient wolves looking to raid and kill any who now thought themselves free of the evil of the Witch King. They found Harry, the smell of cruelty from the dungeons of Carn Dûm was still heavy on the air about him and drew them in like flies.

Daewen was awake, of course. Elves require precious little sleep and what little they do need can be had with their eyes open and their senses aware. She immediately recognised that there would be no way to keep her charge safe while also remaining unseen. She charged into his sad little campsite and roused him from his slumber before the wolves were upon them.

"Mirz kulatza?" his broken voice growled as he came to immediate awareness. Burning green eyes focused on her in the gloom.

"Wargs," she said without any more explanation for she did not understand what he'd said. "You must get the fire alight again, they fear it. I will keep them at a distance."

Those eyes narrowed for a moment before he nodded and she could see frustration and rage burning within. He bent over the dull glow of the fire and began coaxing it back to life.

Daewen could see dark shapes moving through the woods at the edge of her vision. She took aim and loosed a quick shaft at the nearest and was rewarded with a yelping cry of pain as the creature was struck. Not dead, but it would not pose any more problems for them tonight.

The rest took that as a signal to attack. Soon she was firing arrows as fast as she could place them upon the string and more still were coming. She could see that Harry had got the fire going again beside her and it brought a brief respite as the light and warmth kept the huge wolves at a distance.

The respite was far too brief, the party that assailed them was much larger than she'd expected and together their numbers made them bold. The beasts would charge from the dark in the deep of the woods and each time they would be met by her arrows. Many fell and many more were injured by her shafts but she could not keep her defence up forever.

Beside her she noticed Harry was still tending to the fire, now with his small cooking pot upon the flames as he stirred some of the items she'd seen him collecting into the mixture. She had little idea of what he might be doing, perhaps some kind of poison? Another attack came and she was forced to drag her attention from her charge and back to the Wargs.

She was lucky that that did not have the wits to attack at the same time. Instead they would come one or two at a time and she would have just enough speed with her bow to see them off each time. The huge beasts were so large that only the very best placed arrows could fell them and she simply did not have the time to make more than a few such shots.

A few fell with arrows protruding from eye sockets or buried deep in their chests but most of her arrows did little more than momentarily drive them off each time becoming more enraged by the smell of their own blood.

Her arrows flew until she knew her supply would soon run dry. She did not believe there would be a way to survive this now yet she stood defiant in the face of death. She had been given a task to fulfil and so she would. If she could not then it would by her death that she failed, she would not flee.

She reached for her next arrow and her heart stopped cold, they were all out. She reached for her blades as another charge was but seconds away, she would meet them with steel. Quite suddenly she found herself grabbed by cold and spindly arms that nonetheless seemed to be fashioned from iron for all their strength. Harry had jumped at her and managed to manhandle her round a tree just as the world fell to a momentary breathless silence.

The fire exploded, the hastily crafted mixture throwing out a wall of coruscating purple fire in all directions as the unstable mixture ignited. Her eyes went wide in shock as she felt her hair crisp and burn on her head and her skin blister as the flames passed them by.

The tree had provided them some shelter though as its effects were much more dire for the attacking Wargs. They were unable to escape the roaring flames and each one of them was consumed by them as they cried out in surprise and fear. Their flesh and fur was set to torch by the sorcerous flames and nothing could be done to quench them. They rolled upon the floor or ran into the deep woods in search of respite but none would come. Soon the air was filled with the sickly smell of burning flesh as each one was consumed by the still darkly flickering flames. It took nearly a minute for the wolves to stop howling and struggling and in all that time Harry stared at the scene before him in stony silence.

Daewen felt at her singed hair and looked at her red and raw skin, only so lightly touched by the flames of Harry's creation. She was not prepared for this.


	2. To the Misty Mountains

"Bugd za stazgu durb-matum-ob!" chanted a dark voice into the depths of Harry's mind.

He spun where he stood, trying to locate the speaker and yet he was surrounded by the empty pale and ghostly platforms of King Cross station. Dumbledore had faded from sight and Harry was sure he was about to return to his body yet now this voice called to him and he needed to find it.

The words scratched at his mind and left him feeling unclean, yet for all that he felt their pull. A part of him recognised the evil that stained those words yet his curiosity left him straining for them.

"Kulat amub matum agh gashnatub bûrzum fitgu." said the voice and now Harry heard that it was many voices chanting together. Deep and rumbling he felt a pull in them yet he could do nothing to find the source. With each word the chant grew louder and the pull stronger until it was almost unbearable.

He could feel the force and power behind them yet he did not know from where they came, there was no direction to it, merely the feeling of constriction and need.

"Who's that?" he called into the empty halls, still wary of the pain and darkness that seemed intertwined with the words. "What are you saying?"

"Durb-matum-ob! Thrak lat-izishû!" Suddenly the feeling collapsed into a sharp pain at his navel and he felt himself pulled off his spectral feet. About him he felt a torrent of something unidentifiable rushing by, he was thrown forward across the featureless platform and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Before him was a dark tunnel, forbidding and utterly out of place in the pale white void of the place between life and death. He threw out his hands in an impotent attempt to stop himself but of course it had no effect.

He flew into the darkness and it was so all encompassing that he thought for a moment that he had closed his eyes.

He opened them.

He was laying on the ground yet it was not where he had been before. He was not resting atop the soft leafy mould of the Forbidden Forest clearing where he had confronted Voldemort for the final time. Now he lay on stone stone so cold it burned and he was covered in something warm and sticky. He raised his head and found its weight almost too much to bear, his body was weaker than he'd ever known.

Around him were thirteen figures all clad in menacing black robes. Their eyes glinted malevolently in the darkness of their hoods and power swam about them in a torrent. One in particular drew his eye, even darker than the rest he stood near seven feet tall and had a terrible spiked crown of black iron set upon his head.

He looked further and found that he'd been transported somewhere utterly unrecognisable. Gone was the Forbidden Forest of Hogwarts and in its place was a great city, consumed in writhing orange and red flames. Screams of torment and anguish echoed in his ears as those who lived within were reduced to ash in the intense heat. Proud tall spires, once glittering white pinnacles, were blackened by the flames and across the city fell into ruin and rubble.

As he looked on he realised that the people about him were dropping to the ground one by one. Each would sigh and fall to their knees before they then keeled over to their side. When one of them fell his hood was cast back from his head and his face was revealed, darkly tanned and covered in piercings and hoops of gold. His skin had been pulled back and was stretched across his bones so tightly Harry was sure he was in constant pain when speaking. His hair was thin and sickly and grey. His eyes stared wide and lifeless at Harry where he lay.

Soon only one was left standing, the towering figure crowned in iron did not fall as had the others. He looked at last at Harry who lay still upon the cold and smooth stone of the ritual altar in his exhaustion. Harry felt burning hatred and rage in the figure's unseen gaze and knew he was helpless before it.

Harry felt his grasp on consciousness slipping again and darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision. He fought to retain his awareness for he knew that he was already in great danger. He was without his wand or any other protections and knew he would be at the complete and unlikely mercy of the dark figure before him. The figure said something Harry could not fully grasp in the language he'd heard before, the words sibilant and menacing. Harry could not focus on them as his sight became duller despite his fight to stay conscious.

His eyes slipped shut as he tried one last attempt to pull himself back to full awareness and he heard two last words before his battle was completely lost.

"Iistul nûl."

o-o

Harry Potter knew pain.

He had not known true torment or suffering until he had come to this place so many months ago. Days passed by sluggishly, filled with pain and a longing for a final death that walked so close yet never came to him.

How had it come to this? He had been sure that his trials were at an end, that the defeat of Voldemort was mere minutes away. Dumbledore had said he was done, that he needed to do no more, that his long hardship was finally over.

Had he lied? Or had he simply been ignorant of the truth, as he had been ignorant of so many things? There was no end to his suffering to be found here. His next great adventure was one of blood and violence and pain.

It toughened him, like tempered steel. In the last year he had killed many times and could no longer find it within him to regret his actions. The alternative had been so very much worse.

He had been taken from where he arrived and brought North, chained, hobbled and dragged behind a heavy wain. If he could not walk then he was pulled heedlessly through the dirt, he was not fed and he was given only the water he could sip from rancid puddles as he passed them by upon the road.

His childhood had been no comfortable time yet it could not compare in any way to his recent experience.

He could not communicate with them at all for they spoke the foul tongue he'd heard in the place between life and death and they could not comprehend any English. They did not much care at the start, his screams were enough to keep them happy in their ministrations.

After a few weeks though things changed, if only a little. The Witch King, the tall black figure who had been present at his arrival, took a renewed interest in him. He had been impaled and cut and burned and yet never given the release of death no matter how much he begged them for it.

He should have died.

That he did not drew new and unwelcome interest towards him.

Once the Witch King had been content to condemn him to a tortuous death for his folly in foiling the ritual intended to call the One greater than Death from the beyond. Now he realised that Harry had a power of his own.

The Witch King experimented with him. Orcs and Wargs and Trolls stabbed and clawed at his flesh for days and nights without number yet each morning his emaciated body breathed still and new scars burned bright upon his pale, near yellow, skin. His magic betrayed him, kept him alive through the worst of torture.

He was starved for months and grew thinner and thinner until he was barely more than walking bones held together by the will of a cruel fate. His magic sustained him.

He was deprived of water and light for weeks, his eyesight, which had been miraculously improved in his transition to this world, grew bleary and dark while his skin became dry, cracked and bloody. Ever his magic fought to keep him alive, even in the moments when he wished for nothing more than the end of it all.

The Witch King saw value in him then. The worth of such a powerful and resilient servant would be such that it superseded the rage he felt at Harry ruining his greatest scheme. He was not unkillable and many times he hovered close to true death yet never tipped over the edge. The cruel medicine of the sorcerers always brought him back from the brink. He was to be kept alive, he was to be broken as thoroughly as the dungeons of Carn Dum could allow.

He was taught at last to communicate but only in the black language of Sauron. The lessons were short and cruel, any failure resulted in immediate and unrelenting punishment. They were never shy of levelling against him the most terrible punishments. The healing crafts of Angmar were as cruel as their torture yet still they were effective. Each time he was forced to the very brink of death, he was given a sight and hope of relief and then they wrenched it away.

He was taught other languages too, Adûnaic and Westron both, even a little of the Elvish tongues. But he was never to speak them, if ever he did then the retribution was always swift and terrible.

A favourite punishment of the Witch King was to bring to Harry three prisoners. He would command that Harry take up a blade and kill any one of them, lest the Witch King himself decide their fate. Their fates, good or bad, were in Harry's hands, bloodied and scarred as they were.

The first time it happened, Harry refused. The Witch King had all of them tortured for hours until finally their spirits broke and their lives failed. At the same time Harry would be provided comfort and food in within easy sight of them. The Lord of Carn Dum explained to Harry then that their suffering was due to his weakness. If he had simply done as asked then the others would have gone free.

The next week the test was repeated and again Harry refused to kill an innocent. This time the torture was drawn out even longer and children were brought in to share in their fates. They were shown where Harry was being fed the first food he had consumed in a week and told that he and his weakness, his selfishness, was the reason for their suffering.

He did not resist a third time.

Slowly the demands grew in cruelty and became even more extreme. The Witch King would demand he torture one to spare the others. Harry would be brought groups of children or women or family groups. On occasion he would resist, yet every time he did the fate of those he thought to save became worse and worse.

He became inured to their suffering yet still he was not completely subjugated.

He walled off a corner of his mind from the darkness of his captivity, a tiny little place where joy and happiness could still be found. Memories of friends and loved ones sustained it and he cultivated it like the finest garden, never letting it wither even in this uttermost drought of the soul.

Such had been his life for a long year. Day after interminable day of pain, guilt and self loathing in an endless and unstoppable tide. All for nothing.

For near seven hundred years Angmar had been a blight upon the people of the North. The day of Harry's arrival had been the day the last resistance to the power of the Witch King was finally crushed. Fornost had fallen and its people burned alive or put to the sword. It had been their suffering that fueled the dark sacrificial spell used by the Witch King to pull Harry from beyond the walls of the world.

The Master of Death. Such an empty title. Harry was no Master of Death. Instead he was a slave to life, seemingly doomed to linger upon the world in ceaseless agony. No power was he granted, no strength given. He was reduced to the meanest and most foul creature he'd ever known.

Master of Death indeed, such a cruel joke. A last revenge upon those who sought the power of Death. He was sure now that Dumbledore was wrong, that the Hallows had been granted by Death itself, a test and a warning to foolish mortals who would seek to undermine the power of the one and only universal truth.

Yet it had given him a power and strength of sorts, a strength he would have been happy to do without. He survived in the dungeons of Carn Dum for a year in conditions worse than any seen since the corruption of the Orcs in the elder days. Something in him rebelled, something refused to greet Death even as he wished for that release.

He survived long enough. Gondor came, the Elves came. Angmar was thrown down and ruined and the Witch King forced into flight before their hosts. Harry's long imprisonment and torture was finally at an end. He might be free at last.

Yet as one torture ended another surely began. He was a ruined husk, dead in all but flesh. He was stranded in an unfamiliar and cruel world without strength or magic to aid him. But sometimes destruction breeds life anew, stronger and more wondrous than before.

o-o

They took pity on him. Pity. A singularly unfamiliar response. None had shown him such regard in all his long year in Angmar. Yet these people regarded him with pain and sorrow, they shared in the tiniest portion of his torment and knew just a little of what he'd experienced.

It meant little to him at the time. Still so soon after his ordeal he could not rise from the prison of his own mind. Only his hatred of the Witch King and his minions could reach him, only then did he feel as he had once been able.

He felt dead inside, a ghost made flesh. His rescuers looked upon him and saw much the same. He heard them whisper when they thought he could not hear, of darkness and wretchedness and the blessing that death would surely be.

They did not know him. He would not die, not yet. He had yet tasks he wished to complete. The Witch King would know despair before Harry would succumb to the cold embrace.

He walked from their camp, a light pack upon his back. He ignored the anguish-filled eyes that followed him on his way for he wished now for solitude and time to try and heal the wounds that had been inflicted upon his body and soul in the dungeons of Carn Dum.

He was lucky enough to get weeks of it. Long, painful and slow marches marked each day; nightmares and old pain marked each night. In that days he ate for the first time in weeks, yet he could not hold it down. Even worse was the bread given to him by the Elves which, though cold, burned his mouth when he tried to eat it.

By now he was no stranger to burns, so he forced it down anyway. It was one of the few foods he could eat even with his ruined teeth. He always threw it up soon enough, his long starved body would take many weeks before it could consume such rich and satisfying food.

As he travelled he began to wonder how he could return home. Such thoughts had long been confined to the small piece of him mind left untouched by the Witch King's cruelty. Now, though, he could consider his options.

The first thing, of which he was certain, was that he needed to find some way of focusing his magic. He could feel it still, like a warmth that settled beneath his clammy skin but he could not reach it. His wand was lost in his old world along with everything else he'd ever owned or known. Without a wand he had no magic for even Apparition required he have a wand upon his person.

He needed a wand. He'd seen none. The servants that the Witch King had sacrificed in bringing Harry to the world had borne simple staffs of black wood and Harry understood that such devices were what sorcerers in this place used to focus their power.

He did not know if a staff would work with his own type of magic. What little he'd seen of the true magic of this world was mean and simple, nothing that could compare to his own. However, a staff was surely a good place to start. Unfortunately the dark implements carried by the sorcerers of Angmar into battle were all burned by the victorious Men and Elves and they certainly would never trust him enough to grant him such power.

He had to find it himself. What little he knew was that most of the sorcerers of Angmar had come from the East. The men of Rhûn and beyond practiced dark rituals and hidden magic in cabals and cults that meet only on dark moonless nights. That was why Harry chose to head East, he hoped to find some way of gaining a staff from them. His plan did not run much longer than that simple and focused intent.

There was one aspect of magic that he could still access though. Potions. Many of the plants and herbs he'd seen closely resembled those from his home. Many of the more unusual and magical ingredients were nowhere to be found but he had not expected as such. They had been rare even in his own world, he would not find such things by blundering in the wilderness.

It was unfortunate then that his skill with potions was mediocre. He had never bothered to memorise any potions as he'd been sure he would always have a book to refer to. He vaguely remembered some of the rules that Slughorn had managed to impart over his year of teaching but he doubted he could do much more than produce something interestingly wrong.

However he was more than willing to experiment with the last avenue of magic still open to him. As he walked towards the eastern mountains he began collecting small amounts of any plants he thought might prove useful. His end goal at for the time-being was a concoction that would regrow his teeth. Something similar to Skele-gro was what he wanted but it was years since he'd brewed that mixture in Snape's odious classroom.

He walked through the silent forest and muttered to himself as he tried to remember his old potion lessons. Skele-gro was not quite right, bones and teeth weren't the same thing but perhaps it could be modified in some way. If only he could remember the ingredients.

After more than a week of walking the mountains were now much closer and he could feel some of his strength returning to him. He had taken to consuming mere crumbs of the Elvish bread and the barest droplets of the strange water they'd gifted him. It seemed with each day his body found new fortitude and his strides became faster, his breathing slower.

He still looked like a corpse. His matted hair had been ripped out in places and though he had long since washed himself of the filth of Carn Dum it still looked lank and dead. His body was covered in crisscrossing scars that he could feel pulling uncomfortably when he moved. His hideous teeth were still broken and discoloured even after he scoured them with sand, accepting of the pain.

He felt his mind returning slowly to him as he came to the gradual realisation that he no longer needed to guard his memories so jealously and completely. He remembered the ingredients of Skele-gro now. Biting cabbage, scarab beetles and puffer-fish being at the core. He had no way of finding those ingredients but he might be able to find alternatives.

Dandelion flowers might work as a substitute for the biting cabbage, he was keeping an eye out for toads that might work in the place of the puffer-fish and he'd already collected some large beetles. He had no idea what those changes would cause together but he hoped that it would keep the approximate features of Skele-gro at the least. He could only hope. If he had to start potions research from near scratch then he had no idea where he could even start.

That night as he prepared to fall once again into his recurring nightmares he thought for a moment that he heard a distant howl upon the wind. His thoughts went for a moment to Remus and his dreams lingered instead on happier times.

o-o

Harry was shaken awake in the impenetrable blackness of the deepest night. "Who is that?" he grunted in the darkness as a barely visible set of sparkling grey eyes hovered just visible before him.

"Wargs," the person said in Westron, not bothering to answer his question, or not understanding it. "You must get the fire alight again, they fear it. I will help to keep them at a distance."

He knew Wargs, great wolves granted sentience by Morgoth , they could even speak, though he could not understand their tongue. Like so many of Morgoth's creations they were cruel flesh-eaters who would surely delight in ripping him and his unexpected companion limb from limb.

He set to work immediately. Low embers still glowed red in the ashes of last night's fire and he carefully coaxed them back to life with dry leaves and twigs. It took him just seconds to turn it back into a roaring inferno thanks to the heat that had been retained there.

The Wargs continued their attacks sporadically. Harry could see that they were playing with them. He could hear their cruel barking laughter in the dark woods beyond the light of his fire. His companion, whom he could now see was an Elf with long dark hair, would not be able to keep them at a distance once they decided to go for the kill.

She had no intention of making that easy, however. Her bow sung and arrow after arrow found its mark in their attackers. Most did not penetrate deep enough to kill but they were successfully keeping the creatures off the both of them.

The creatures of Morgoth; Orcs Trolls, Wargs, cared nothing for casualties. For them the thrill was to be found in the suffering of the enemy once bested, as many as the Elf could fell more would take their place and they would not be slowed by their fallen brethren.

He noticed his cooking pot by the fire, a tiny cauldron gifted to him by the Men and Elves who had also gifted him his freedom. Perhaps there was something he could do to aid her.

He hastily began adding the most unstable ingredients he'd been able to find to the mixture while stirring it roughly and without care to agitate them further. He paid no heed to the battle around him as he worked feverishly on his concoction. Death cap, yew sprig and horseradish were used as the base. Harry hoped that their associations with death and heat would see a large explosion. He then added a few ants, again for heat and he mixed it all together with an ash branch. The colour quickly began to darken and his stirrer was rapidly blackened, he hopes he had not gone too far but he could not afford half measures at a time like this.

Finally he saw it begin to boil and well up alarmingly and purple fire danced upon its broiling surface. He'd seen that kind of reaction before in Neville's cauldron and knew something impressive was about to happen, he just hoped it would be enough to save them.

He turned and wrenched the almost weightless Elf behind the nearby tree and he ignored them when they gasped in shock at his sudden action. They reached the protection of the tree just in time. The potion exploded outwards in a wall of coruscating purple flame the pained the night with eerie shadows and a dancing half-light. He felt the magical flames lick over his body as he tried to use his meagre mass to protect the Elf whom he now belatedly noticed was female and probably terrified.

He did not cry out as the last of his tired hair was burned from his head, he merely watched in satisfied silence as their attackers panicked as they found themselves wreathed in unquenchable flames. They howled and writhed upon the ground as the too familiar smell of burning flesh reached him and he did not look away.

He released the she-Elf and she stared around her in shock before looking at her lightly burned hands and hair. When she looked up at him he saw fear there, fear of what he was, fear of what he could do.

He simply ignored her, he did not know why she had been following him but he did not much care either. It was only wise to keep an eye on one such as he, those who had freed him were obviously not naive.

He cursed when he realised that he'd managed to destroy all of his equipment and food, the small backpack he'd been gifted had been burned to nothing with everything it contained. Even the little cooking pot had melted completely in the heat given off by the explosive concoction.

He looked at the scattered and charred remains of the Wargs and considered them for a moment. He knew that attempting to eat any of the creatures of Morgoth was enough to poison most men. He, however, was much hardier than most and immune to most illness thanks to his magic. How would the foul meat affect him? He eventually decided he did not wish to know. The forest through which they walked was not without food, many of the potion ingredients he'd found and, now, destroyed were edible too. His long year camping in the wilds of the UK had left him with a better knowledge than most of what was edible and what was not.

The skin too had been burned from their bones. There was very little he could salvage from them. If he had a container he would have liked to keep their hearts and livers for potion ingredients and possible components for experimentation in wand creation. He had nothing of the sort.

He looked over to the Elf and saw that she was moving again. She walked towards him and he turned to acknowledge her.

"You saved me," she said slowly, unsurely. "How?"

"I can use magic," he said in response but she heard only the words in the Black Speech, "Paash ushd dush mupsh."

Her eyes flickered to the shadows and corpses littered around them as if worried they might spring upon her. "I do not understand the Black Speech," she said uneasily, "could you not use another?"

Harry knew he could, it was a mental block that had been laboriously built but he would overcome it. "I. Use. Some. Magic," he said haltingly, each word bringing flashes of old pain to the forefront of his mind.

She immediately realised his plight and hastily apologised. "I am sorry, I did not know such speech would cause you so much pain."

Harry gritted his teeth. "No. Pain. No More. I Speak Westron," he ground out as he fought his now ingrained urge to flinch.

"You need not inflict it upon yourself for me," she nearly pleaded.

"Not. For. You. For me," he said slowly, deliberately. "Never. Slave. Again."

A look of understanding dawned upon her and he could see that she understood his meaning. The Black Speech was just another method of control over him, he would fight it as he fought everything else and he would win.

"Why. You. Follow. Me?" he asked her after a moment.

"Lord Glorfindel believed you were soon to die," she explained as guilt swam in her pale grey eyes. "I was to make sure your end was peaceful, I was to keep you safe until it came."

He nodded in acceptance yet felt a pang of regret at the knowledge that n such end would come. "No die. You can go," he said as kindly as his halting speech and foul appearance would allow.

"This task was given to me," she said firmly. "Had I not been here those Wargs would surely have ended you. My task is not done."

A small part of him almost wished he had died there but he would not allow such thinking to overwhelm him. He was free now. His life, such as it was, had been returned to him. He would make it worth something.

"Past mountains," he allowed eventually, seeing that she was adamant in her determination. "No further."

"That will do," she said with a swift bob of her head. "Once you are in the Vale of the Anduin you will be much safer."

He accepted her word for now and wondered for a moment at the easy trust he placed in her. After a long year of torture how was it possible that he could so easily trust one whom he'd never before known?

He decided it was her Elvish nature that made him grant her such trust. His knowledge of Middle-earth was incomplete but he'd been told of Elves. Nothing good. Arrogant, jealous and uncaring for lesser beings he'd been told.

He did not see it so. The Elves who had freed him at Carn Dum had been wary but kind to a fault. He would never have allowed one such as he to go free so easily. This Elf, he realised he didn't know her name, seemed to shine in his sight as if pure and unsullied. He felt guilty merely being near her, as if he could drown that might by his mere presence.

"Your name?" he asked as he looked about the campsite for anything worth salvaging. There was nothing.

"I am Daewen," she said as she watched him poke at his ruined supplies. "My own camp is very close, you may use my supplies if you wish."

Harry was amazed again at the charity he was being shown. Once upon a time he might have bristled at being shown such pity, as if such feelings diminished the purity of his suffering. He knew now it was not so, he would not turn away kind actions when performed unasked.

"Thank you," he said simply and inclined his head. He would have smiled had he not known how fearsome it looked.


	3. A Shadow Walked

Harry awoke the next morning with his familiar start. The old pain that had woken him each morning in the dungeons of Carn Dûm seemed doomed to echo forever in his mind. For a moment his mind recoiled from consciousness as it had done for near the entire year he'd spent in this world. Consciousness brought pain, anguish and impotent rage.

It took him a moment to remember that he was no longer held in those squalid dungeons. He slept now under the creaking bows of naked trees. He felt the free air surge through his lungs and rejoiced in the soft loam beneath him. The air carried welcome scents to his nose, the smoke and smell of food over a fire energised him as few things could. He soon pushed his dark thoughts away and slowly willed himself upright despite much protest of his still battered and weakened body.

He saw his camp was being shared by another, a woman of lithe grace who was sat a short distance away tending carefully to a fire. It took his lethargic mind a few seconds to piece together the events of the night before. The attack by Wargs, the appearance of his mysterious benefactor, his potion, the fire.

He felt the barest trickle of something long unknown within him, hope. The fire and explosion he had produced was no mundane reaction, of that he could be sure. Some portion of the magic of his home still existed here and he had some way of accessing it. That knowledge ran through him like a thunderbolt and he found himself staring blankly into space as a little part of the black despair that had been his existence for so very long was burned off by that spark of hope.

The Elf, Daewen, his memory supplied, was prodding at a fire nearby and he got his first true look at her now in the lethargic light of the early morning. From behind he could see that she was very slender and in her ornate and beautiful armour of green and silver. Had it not been for her long dark hair he might have taken her for a man from what he could see. He made an effort to organise his thoughts to more constructive purposes.

He still wasn't sure what he thought of the Elves. They spoke to something within him, something unpleasant. He could easily see why Men and Orcs disliked them so strongly. Every Elf Harry had thus far seen had something of an air about them of superiority. As if they were doing the world a favour by their merest presence. It was not something he liked. Their effortless grace and eternal beauty chafed too, and he could not puzzle out why that was.

He discarded those thoughts, they oozed greed and jealousy in his mind and he could feel they were not his own, not truly. He was grateful his imprisonment had been ended when it was, he feared that much longer in the dungeons of Carn Dûm might have left him unable to differentiate between those thoughts.

Yet still there was something that itched at the back of his mind even as he sought to ignore it. He would be hard pressed to explain it, a lingering wrongness in the feeling of the world about him. He could not quite place it. He knew woodlands well enough and the woods he had travelled were no different upon the surface of it.

Still he felt something just wasn't quite right. The faintest brush of an unseen breeze upon his skin. It was not only the Elves he found himself wary of, but everything in this world. He put that too down to the influence of the Witch King, but the uneasiness stayed with him anyway.

"You are awake," said Daewen as she turned to look at him as she noticed his movements. Her voice was soft and lilting, as beautiful as a tree in autumn it was sad and yet vibrant. Pale and flawless skin stood out starkly against her dark hair and her eyes were a deep grey that shone with years unspoken.

Harry cleared his throat roughly and he saw her flinch at the gurgling sound it made. "Yes. Awake long?" he asked.

She shook her head smoothly and her hair shimmered like a shadowed pool in the early morning light. "I did not return to sleep, we Elves require little," she explained, something that was unknown to Harry. He wondered just how little they required. He had so very much to learn about this place and the people within. "Mount Gundabad is not many leagues to the East, the Wargs will have come from there. I would not have us be caught by them again, I fear we would not survive a second time."

"Want to go. East," said Harry, and he grunted in annoyance at his own halting speech. "Across mountains."

"Why should you want that?" she asked with brows furrowed in confusion. "I know very little of the eastern lands of Middle-earth but I know they have long been shrouded in darkness."

That was something Harry already knew after his time in Angmar. He felt it was a risk worth taking. He needed to discover what magic had been used to bring him here and how it had done so if he was to reverse it. Most of the sorcerers involved in his summoning and the blood and sacrificial magic they used came from the East. That was all Harry knew, and so that was what he would act upon.

"Need to learn magic," he said shortly. He immediately realised his mistake when an angry look came upon Daewen's fair face.

"When challenged by Prince Eärnur did you not say you would not seek out the darkness?" she demanded tightly though Harry was gratified to see that she did not reach for a weapon.

He raised his hands in a placating gesture and tried to calm her. His frustrating command of Westron left much to be desired. He could feel the words and the sentences out there but as he reached out to grasp them they would slip through the fingers of his mind like smoke. "Learn what magic," he said in hasty explanation. "How I came here."

Her anger cooled just a little and she seemed to understand his desire. "Would it not be wiser to rest and recover your strength first?" she asked.

Harry nearly growled in irritation, how could he explain to her the need he felt to return home. Every day for a year he'd felt it slip further away, he'd felt his memories of Hermione and Ron all the others get just a little more distant. By now he could barely remember their faces. Ron had slowly become little more than a vague ginger and Hermione just an impression of frizzy brown hair and that huffing noise she'd make whenever Harry did or said something stupid.

He missed them, and everything else more than anything. The fear of death was nothing, he'd walked into the Forbidden Forest to save them. He'd never completed that task though, Voldemort still lived. He was prepared to walk through fire and death for them and yet here he was stuck a universe away. He finally had the ability to look for a way home and his new companion wanted him to get comfortable?

"No," he said flatly. "Need to return."

She met his eyes for a long moment and Harry wondered what her reaction would be. Eventually her eyes softened and she seemed to accept his decision.

"If you must go East then I would not cross the Hithaeglir so close to Mount Gundabad," she said as she return her attention to the fire and poked experimentally at the meat that was still cooking over it. "There are passes, safer ones, a week or more to the south."

He knew that she would surely have a better knowledge of the ways of this world than he and that it would be wise to heed her words. Nevertheless he'd always had a need to understand, if he was to survive long enough here to return home then surely he would need to learn all he could.

"Mount Gundabad?" he asked her, the name had a curious sound to it.

"Long ago it was a Dwarf kingdom," said Daewen patiently. "It was taken by Orcs long before I was conceived, more than three thousand of your years ago. Now it is a hive of Goblins and Wargs, a scourge on all the North." She prodded again at the cooking meat and this time was satisfied. She passed some to Harry in a small bowl covered with intricate carvings that were thinner than a hair and swept beautiful patterns unbroken through the pale wood.

Harry carefully filed this information away as he took the food. "Thank you. Dwarves?"

A look of distaste flitted across her face as if the thought was an unpleasant one. "A short, hairy and uncouth race. Their greatest Kingdom in this age is Moria to the south of here, on occasion they visit Rivendell for trade though it has been more than one hundred years since I saw one of their kind. There is has long been bad blood between their people and mine."

Harry listened in interest to her information and prompted her to continue when she paused.

"Their greed and lust for gold caused the downfall of Doriath in the first age," she explained briefly, her voice disparaging. "They care for little else than their own hoards. Those few I have met."

He nodded in understanding and likened them to the Goblins of his home. Should he ever come into contact with them he would be sure to treat them with all the care he could manage.

A question had been lingering in his mind for some time now. He knew that Elves could live through a vast span of years while seemingly untouched by them. His companion made casual references to spans of years far greater than he's expect from one who looked so young.

"How old are you?" he asked, only belatedly realising how blunt and rude it would surely sound.

Daewen evidently did not mind it, instead she laughed, a clear and pleasing sound that chased some of the early morning gloom away. "My people do not usually ask such questions," she said with a smile, though it seemed a little brittle. Harry could see she could not decide where to look, her eyes would flit to his face and retreat again. She found his appearance unsettling. "But it is my understanding that Men are as fascinated with the age of Elves as Elves are with the youth of Men. Lets see, I was begat in the 1123rd year of the Third Age, that would make me now 851 I think. But what of you, I find myself unable to estimate your age." She looked sorrowful then and met his eyes as if asking his forgiveness.

He grimaced, he knew what was coming. "I am eighteen," he admitted.

She gasped in shock and horror and her eyes ran over his still emaciated form. His dark hair mostly burned off or ripped out during his torture and many of his teeth broken or missing. "Such, terrible hardship," she said softly. "I, I do not have the words in Westron to express it. Ingem would be the word in our tongue, yet even that does not do your suffering justice."

Harry waved her sorrow off as it was of no value to him. Regret would not undo the past. "Could Elves help?" he asked. Much as he desired nothing more than to get home perhaps if all Elves were like Daewen he might have been better remaining with them for just long enough to regain his strength, no matter how much his pride rebelled at the idea.

Daewen shifted uneasily and wouldn't meet his eyes. "Some of your hurts would fade under the protections of the Elves," she said evasively. "Others would not, much of your appearance is permanent, I fear."

That was unwelcome, if not unexpected, news. Harry would either have to look elsewhere, an unlikely possibility as the Elves were known even among the Orcs to have the foremost skill in the healing arts. He knew it was possible to heal himself completely with potions, though. He merely had to deduce the concoctions that would work. Ultimately, though, his appearance was not the greatest of his concerns.

He had little enough understanding of how he'd come to be here that he held out small hope that his injuries may melt away upon his return, like a forgotten nightmare. They presented an inconvenience in his travels and even his own meagre vanity was repulsed by the visage he saw in the clear pools and rivers upon his path. One thing he was sure of was the ability of magic to reverse the damage.

"No. I can fix," he told her in the hope that he might lessen her sorrow and misplaced guilt.

"You should eat," she said as she pointed at the still untouched food in his hands. "Elves may be able to survive for long without food but I do not believe it is so for Men."

He began to slowly eat the meat he'd been given. As his teeth were in such a terrible state he had to rip small pieces off with his fingers and swallow them near whole. Chewing was a painful and fruitless endeavour.

"You lead me to pass?" he asked between two small bites.

She inclined her head gently. "I will, the northernmost pass I would attempt runs to the south of the Langwell river. I would much rather we take the High Pass near Imladris but that way would take us over the Ettenmoors."

He had a limited knowledge of the Ettenmoors, a home of Orcs and Trolls within the borders of Angmar and the reason why he had not travelled south until now. He knew nothing of Imladris.

"Imladris?" he asked, the word rolling strangely off his tongue, it had a fair lilt to it that was ill-served by a mouth so accustomed to the harsh tones of the Black Speech.

"Rivendell in Westron, the domain of Master Elrond, my home," she said and Harry could see a faraway glitter in her eyes.

"You want to return?" Harry asked. He understood the yearning for home all too well.

"Master Elrond would receive you kindly," she said, neatly avoiding his question. "If there is any upon Middle-earth that could help you it would be he. He is one of the wisest and most learned of our kin who yet remains here." Her words held a respect that bordered on awe, Harry was intrigued.

"Magic?" he said in interest. If there was a source of learning for magic outside of the dangerous East he would turn down the hospitality of the Elves so readily.

She shook her head. "Not of the type known to you," she said and her brows furrowed. "Westron has only a single word for magic, yet the enchantments woven about Imladris are as different from those of the Witch King as day is from night. I do not know much of it, yet I know Master Elrond is more learned in such things than any other save perhaps the Istari."

Had circumstances been otherwise Harry would have gladly gone with her to investigate the magic of her Imladris. In his year of imprisonment he had come to understand a little of the magic of the Witch King. In many ways it seemed to echo his own and yet it was wholly damaging in nature. There were no minor spells for levitation or healing, instead all were aimed at destruction and corruption.

If the Elves had their own brand of magic then it meant that surely magic went further than that shown by the followers of the Witch King. His mind was brought back to the mention of 'istari', that was the second time he'd heard that term.

"Istari?"

"They are Wizards in Westron, they wear the appearance of old Men," she explained briefly. "Mithrandir and Curunír are the two I know of, another resides in the southern reaches of Mirkwood east of the mountains but he is rarely mentioned, a man of nature now who has little to do with the outside world. I was told that there were once five."

That was a strange choice of words. "Wear appearance?" he asked.

Daewen nodded though she looked rather unsure. "Their guise has not changed in all the years I have lived. They are not Men in lifespan but they also are not Elvish in appearance. Perhaps Master Elrond or Círdan of the Havens would know more."

Mithrandir, Curunír, Círdan, Harry felt his head beginning to spin with the weight of names being thrust upon him. It reminded him of late night study sessions for History of Magic. He decided then that he had questioned her far enough for now. She would be leading him for more than a week. He would have time to find out more from her throughout the rest of their journey. He forced down one last morsel of the meal he'd been handed and he knew that any more would be a fool's errand.

"I'm done. We should go," he said as he stood up a little unsurely.

Daewen took his bowl from him and set about striking her tiny camp. It took mere seconds for Elves travelled light and it had been set lightly so that she could easily keep following him should he break his own camp unexpectedly.

Soon they were on their way. Daewen usually walked ahead to ensure they were not walking into any danger. So silent were her footfalls that Harry would strain to hear her and be sure that she was some great distance ahead when suddenly she would materialise from the undergrowth like a shadow.

As each day passed Harry gained in strength and they were able to go farther and faster. His Elven guardian always ensured he was well fed and led well clear of any danger upon their journey.

He also learned a great deal from her. Her woodcraft greatly exceeded his own and she had knowledge of some of the strange plants that Harry had never seen before. Each day was marked by Harry's laboured progress through the thin woodland and low scrubland to which the woods gave way.

"How is it you can walk so silently," he asked her one day after once again being caught unawares by her feather-light footfalls.

"Elves are light on their feet," she said simply. It was all the answer she could give and she seemed to feel that it was wholly sufficient as an answer.

Harry did not think the same. Looking upon her he was sure she was no doubt light but her ability to walk over fallen leaves and loam without disturbing them in her passage was impossible. He suspected that there was much more to the Elves of Middle-earth than met the eye.

They reached the low foothills that heralded the entrance to the Langwell Pass not six days after the Warg attack. Harry took many opportunities to harvest potions ingredients for future experiments and Daewen regarded them with guarded interest. The exploding cauldron he had managed to produce so quickly was unlike anything she had seen, it was not often an Elf was surprised by a Man.

In turn Harry had taken what chances he could to learn from Daewen. She knew much of the ancient history of the Elves and around the fire of nights she would sing of Beren and Lúthien or tell him tales of the travels of Eärendil the Mariner. Harry listened to her beautiful voice, which rang with more melodies than he thought possible. The details of the stories were usually beyond him as it seemed to be a great procession of names and heroes of whom he had never heard.

When it came to the world around them as it was now he found her to be frustratingly sheltered and she had very few satisfying answers for him. The Elves of Rivendell were not wholly cut off from the world but they lived on its most extreme edges.

"Would that we had not been so distant in recent years," she lamented one evening. "Arthedain might yet have stood and you may have never been brought here or subjected to the torture of Angmar."

Once again Harry heard that sinuous voice in his mind whispering cruel words to him. It was the Elves fault, it said. Had they not been so aloof, so arrogant in their superiority he would never have had to suffer.

"Why did you not help them?" he asked her as he tried to understand the thought processes of the Elves.

"You must understand what it means to us," she said sadly. "To become close to others, to fight and bleed together and then to watch them wither before us and then depart for evermore."

"So you just stayed safe in your hidden valley?" he asked doubtfully. He could not understand that attitude. "While others were dying outside?"

"We fought before," she said. "There have been many battles between Angmar and the Elves yet always we retreated once the battle was won. Many among us wished to do more and yet we could not fight the might of Angmar alone. Perhaps we should have tried." Her sad eyes rested on him once again.

"What is done is done," he said firmly. "There is nothing we can do about it now." Even then the voice returned and muttered stinging darkness into his mind.

He ignored it. It had been a presence within his thoughts for so long that he could now leave it starved of attention or consideration. Surely it would soon wither and his mind would be wholly his own again.

The climb into the mountains was hard and slow. Harry's beaten body may not longer be in the dire state it had been but the mountain pass was ever steep and perilous. The cool autumn air gave gained a chill and the unrestrained wind became an ever present companion.

A thin path snaked high into the weathered peaks and below it the cliffs dropped away harshly into the bubbling streams below. Scree and loose gravel slipped underfoot and made the going more perilous still. The one small comfort was that no rains fell upon them in the first few days.

Daewen almost seemed to glide up the path, so light and sure were her footfalls. While Harry would constantly misstep and slip back as scree came loose beneath his feet she could walk over the loose surface as easy as a level floor.

Each time Harry stumbled she would quickly return to him and he would wave her off in frustration. He grew steadily more annoyed with himself over the climb. Before his long imprisonment in the dungeons of Carn Dûm his body had been the one thing that he could rely upon. His reactions, balance and coordination had been among the very best. Now he felt like an uncoordinated child attempting to make their first steps.

Daewen's presence was a constant reminder of his own weakness and shortcomings as it seemed she moved through the world utterly uninfluenced by it while Harry struggled every step. He found himself both looking forward to and dreading the time when they would break paths.

"I would lead you across the mountains and no farther," she said one night after she'd been silent for a time. "I fear you have a long journey ahead of you yet and I would return to my home at Imladris before the winter sets in.

"I have little enough knowledge of the lands beyond the Hithaeglir as it is," she continued. "While my heart grows heavy at the thought of leaving you without a companion on this quest I have long been absent from my home and I would see it again if I may. Your journey stretches before you, across many leagues and years; I cannot join you in it."

Harry could not argue with that though part of him wished he would. He had spent so very long alone and did not wish to return to it. Yet he also felt that his ultimate journey would take him a lonely path. He wished to return home, nothing more. No-one would follow him.

"I won't ask more of you." His speech was still somewhat stilted but long the days of talking and listening to his companion had resulted in a much improved ability than he's had upon his release. He was grateful to her for that, and many other things. "You have been a great aid. I owe you. I will repay you."

"Repay me by living," she said, her voice level and heartfelt. Her eyes rose to meet his, the one part of him her gaze could linger upon without flinching away. Even after so much time near him he knew she still found his battered body painful to look upon. "When you have healed, as you say you so surely will, I would see you visit Imladris. It would ease my mind to know you have put this suffering behind you."

"If I get a chance, I will," said Harry. He did not want to commit to such a promise in light of his wish to return home. If he was given option to go then he knew he would take it in a heartbeat.

As their journey continued the path over the high mountains became both colder and wetter and Harry found his clothes poorly suited. The Hithaeglir were well named, in Westron they were the Misty Mountains and the cloying mist soon began to chill Harry to his bones. He pushed onwards through the pale fog that lay heavy over the mountaintops and did what he could to ignore the shaking of his body as it fought for warmth.

He regained the unhealthy pallor that he had only begun to throw off and his hinds and feet became heavy and leaden in the cold. His feet dragged across the loose earth and rock of their mountain path. Whenever he saw Daewen look at him in concern he would feel the slightest surge of frustration and that weakly sputtering fire would warm him for a few steps further. Never far enough.

He began thinking of the ingredients of the Pepperup potion wistfully. He had little chance of coming across a bicorn for the central ingredient however. He felt frustration again at the world in which he now found himself. He had half the ingredients for a great many potions and yet he had not the central ingredients that would give them their purpose.

As he was considering what he might be able to accomplish with those ingredients he did have he was rejoined by Daewen as she returned from scouting further ahead. As soon as she drew level with him she whipped off the long dark robe she often wore over her light armour. Harry growled in frustration as she moved to lay it over his shoulders, he could not afford to be so weak. An Elf of all things was keeping him alive and fed. He shrugged off her aid and stalked into the lee of the high cliff along which they were walking. It provided little enough protection from the cloying mists but Harry gratefully received it.

He cast around in the shade of the mountain and across the rocky path for a suitable cauldron for his craft. Anger welled within him at his helplessness, there was no feeling he loathed more. He would cast it off by demonstrating his strength to himself.

Mixing a potion while cold was rare but not totally unheard of. In those potions the heat had to come from the ingredients themselves, the potion would heat from within as they were added and mixed within the base. It was something covered only within NEWT level texts and Harry had had only a single opportunity to make such a potion during his time at Hogwarts. He was not sure he knew the specifics of the process well enough to decouple the warmth of the mixture from a warming effect within the resulting potion.

In this instance, however, that was not a significant concern. He intended to make a warming potion of some kind, it may not be as effective as the Pepperup potion but he was sure he could achieve some limited success. If the warmth he used to heat the potion bled into the result then it would hopefully only strengthen the effect. At least, that was what he hoped.

He turned out the small bag that Daewen had given to him to store his ingredients. There was quite a selection but again there was nothing with and inherent or powerful magic. Harry decided he would not give up and he began sorting through the ingredients as Daewen sat beside him silently. He was grateful that she did not ask what he was doing, he was not sure how he would have answered.

Aconite would serve as a base, he decided but he needed to counteract its harmful effects. He looked again at the options and settled on a few daisies. Daisies would always work to reduce harmful effects, the pure white and spring association was always a good indication of that.

His concoction of course had no warmth within it and so both ingredients sat there unresponsive. He needed to encourage a conflict, something daisies did not do. His choice of ingredients was limited but he settled on the edible mushrooms Daewen had brought to him the day before. By combining edible and inedible aconite the potion would conflict within itself and a small amount of heat would come through. All it needed now was for those ingredients to be forced together and held there, to that end he added a little knotgrass to pull them together. Using a stone he roughly ground them together until he could feel the warmth rising from it.

He then began deliberately stirring it with a thin pine branch he'd picked up on their journey. He hoped that the tendency of pine to be unreactive in potioncraft would mean it wouldn't distort the mixture too much. One half turn to the left, another to the right, he repeated the actions again and again and finally it bubbled into life.

Daewen looked on in interest, he taken some time to explain to her the art of brewing in general terms during their travelling together. She had also seen a few details of what he had done during the Warg attack but had not yet truly seen him in action and she gasped when the cold mixture of water and plants came to a warm boil on the frigid rocks of the Misty Mountains.

With the heat now sustaining the mixture Harry added a few more ingredients. He painstakingly balanced the heat with temperance and benevolent plants as he didn't want to cause an explosion this time. By carefully coaxing the mixture towards warmth and health he hoped it would work at least somewhat like a Pepperup. It should at the least avoid the impressive explosion he'd produced a week earlier.

Finally, after adding a single small slug to ensure a slow release and stirring carefully until the liquid became a pleasant orange yellow colour he decided that he would get no better. He waited for a moment for the potion to cool enough that it would not scald him and lowered his head to suck it from the hollow.

A hand caught his shoulder and stopped him. He looked up at Daewen and saw concern in her eyes.

"You would just drink that?" she asked with clear incredulity. "After all that I just watched you add to it?"

"Once complete, potion ingredients lose their properties," Harry explained what he understood of the theory. He remembered the many medicinal potions he'd consumed over his years at Hogwarts. "Still tastes terrible."

Then, without any further discussion he lowered his head to the mixture and sucked it up carefully. He was right in one thing at least, it tasted very much like the foul mixture it was. He sat back after taking a deep sip and waited nervously for the result.

Daewen was eyeing him carefully as he sat back. He could almost see her mind working as she tried to decide how she should act. In the end she remained silent and was willing to wait to see the results that came, if any.

Slowly, very slowly Harry felt a deep warmth tingle at his toes, like the feeling of standing in a hot bath after a cold day. The sensation spread upwards slowly and deepened more and the tiredness and stiffness in him limbs lifted as the ice that had seemed to run through his veins was melted and swept away. He soon felt as if he'd been sitting outside on a warm summer's day and he felt invigorated by the friendly heat.

He heard a gasp from Daewen. "You have lost your deathly pallor," she said in wonder, "this strange mixture worked?"

He smiled in grim triumph, for now that he'd taken the first small step he could see the path stretched out before him. It was no great victory in truth but it showed that he was not yet defeated. He could recover and he would find a way home in time, even if it took him years. Harry Potter would never be known for giving up.

"It worked," he confirmed to Daewen as he enjoyed the moment. "It warmed me as it should. I hope it will last a few hours. We should move on while it lasts."

"Would you teach me how it works?" she asked as they both stood again. "Such things as you did here are not beyond the knowledge of Elves but your method is utterly unknown."

"I would," said Harry readily, after all even with the dark voice playing upon the depths of his mind he knew she'd been nothing but aid to him. "But it takes years. And I am no master."

"Then tell me what you may in our short time," she argued gently. "We will have time and little enough to talk of in it. I hold an interest in healing, though I am not near so learned as Master Elrond. I am sure even he would he would find your craft of great interest."

He saw little reason to deny her. The Elves had helped him and Daewen herself had come through peril to protect him. He had no fear that the knowledge could be used against him for he doubted they would get all that far in their research from what little he could pass on. It would repay her in a small way for her kindness.

"Very well," he said finally as he hastily tried to form a description that she might understand. "I will explain the basics as we walk. First you must understand my type of magic. The foundation of it is meaning."

His stilted short sentences were not given to lengthy explanations of the fundamentals of magic as he understood it. Beside him Daewen glanced across in confusion at his pronouncement.

"That is not how we view magic," she said unsurely.

"I think my magic and yours are different," Harry allowed. "The magic of the King of Angmar was corruptive. It dominated and subverted. That is not how I understand my magic.

"It was a few years ago I learned this. My old teacher mentioned it once. I researched it. It feels right. In everything there is a story. In every action, in every plant, in every rock. They have their own personalities, meanings. You probably know this. A rock is unyielding. A tree is reborn each year. Those are not literal truths." He was now getting into his stride, it seemed the long year in the dungeons of Carn Dûm fell away and he remembered his lessons with Dumbledore when a passing remark from the old man had held such revelation for Harry. "A spell hears that story. Adds to it. It is a symbiosis."

"The voices of trees are not alien to the Elves," Daewen admitted as she obviously tried to come to terms with his words. "Yet I have never heard of them being talked of in relation to the magic of Morgoth's worshippers or the enchantments of the Elves. We hear some small portion of them and we can speak to our own story, the song of our life, but we cannot change the song of something else. To comprehend the song of even a single tree is a labour of years and it is not something we Elves do much any longer. I have never heard of a Man who could hear such things."

Harry was not yet done. "Potions use that story. A plant is not just a plant. It is life. It is death. It is food, or it is poison. It might be pure, or it might be corrupt. It might flourish in the warmth, or in the cold. Those are parts of its story. A potion is about weaving them together. If you get it right you can do almost anything."

"Even after watching you at work I find it hard to imagine," said Daewen. "You say you can hear these stories, the meanings? Of all things? Did you listen to the 'potion'?"

"I cannot at least," said Harry with a regretful shake of his head. "You have to know them. We learned them over centuries. Thousands of people. Trial and error for the most part."

"It still seems strange to me," she admitted. "But I have never had cause nor opportunity to discuss the workings of magic or enchantment with another. Much of our own healing craft is reliant on the Healing Leaf, Athelas. I do not know much of the depths of our herb lore."

"The concept is strange," said Harry understandingly. "It is a personal theory. My mentor, Dumbledore, seemed to think of magic that way. He never really put it into words."

"Perhaps you should discuss it with one more learned than I," said Daewen in disappointment. "I am sure Master Elrond or the Istari would find your words clearer in purpose."

"Perhaps," he agreed, he would still travel into the East in search of his magic. Part of him rebelled at the thought of presenting himself to these other wizards while in such a position of weakness. "How would I find them?"

"Master Elrond resides always in Imladris unless something of great importance draws him forth. Mithrandir wanders far and wide across the land," she said. "He rarely stays in one place over-long, though he visits Rivendell every few years to hear the counsel of Master Elrond and others. Curunír is only rarely to be found in the West. He has long resided in the East where he aids the Men there in resisting the servants of Darkness. Should your path take you there he would perhaps be easiest to find."

Harry nodded to that though he had little intention to search for the Wizards in truth. Only if he found himself unable to progress would he go to them and then he would only go to them as an equal. Few made a real effort to help those they felt below them.

"You obviously respect Master Elrond a lot," he said eventually. "You speak of him often."

"Of all the Eldar east of the sea Master Elrond is perhaps the greatest," she said quickly. "He is as wise as any of the Istari and he sees further than any save perhaps the Lady Galadriel. He is a warrior of greatest renown, even next to Lord Glorfindel whom you have met. Despite that is he is as kind as summer after a long and bitter winter. His daughter is the evenstar of our people and one whom I treasure as a friend."

The wonder in her voice rung true as Harry listened. He almost decided then and there to return to Imladris in search of Elrond but something within him told him that his path ran yet East, not South.

"Maybe I will meet him one day," he allowed after a little thought. "He sounds like a great man."

"I think you and he would find much common ground," she said with another smile.

It took another six days to cross the mountain pass into the valley of the Langwell and Harry was grateful that the hard journey across the mountains was at an end. His strength was returning rapidly and his body no longer looked so terrible to behold.

He took the opportunity to wash himself in the frigid waters of the bubbling stream and he felt human for the first time in more than a year. No longer was his body covered in filth or his mind shrouded in darkness. His body still bore stark reminders of his past, the mixture of pale or angry scars and his broken teeth were still obvious to behold but he now looked like a survivor rather than a casualty.

Daewen noticed his rapid healing and felt moved to comment upon it. "I did not think Men healed with the same speed as the Eldar and yet you are already putting the hardships behind you in body, at least."

"My people heal much faster than normal men," Harry agreed. It had been one of the aspects of magic he had meant to investigate before he'd been forced into hiding. "I believe something in our magic speeds it up."

"Perhaps there is something of the Eldar within you," she mused. "It may explain something more of your abilities. What span of years can your people expect to live?"

"Those without magic live perhaps seventy or eighty years," said Harry helpfully. "Those with magic can live perhaps twice that, occasionally more."

"It sounds much like you have the extended lifespans of those Men who came to Middle-earth from Númenor in the Western Sea," she said in interest. "They may expect to live a similar span of years to your own people yet they do not have any magic of which I know."

Harry could not see any connection between his own people and the Men of Middle-earth, they were, after all, separated by the gulf between worlds. He couldn't help but idly wonder what would happen should one of those Men be born with magic, would they live even longer? He did not know, but he knew these questions would likely stay with him long after he returned home.

It finally came time for them to part ways in the eastern foothills of the Misty Mountains after near two weeks of travel together. Harry found himself saddened to be sundered from the only person to whom he'd truly talked in more than a year.

They stood awkwardly upon the banks of the clear Langwell as it burbled its way towards the plains below and Harry found he wasn't sure what to say.

"I. You've. Thank you," he said finally. "You have done more for me than you know." He realised he didn't know what gestures Elves used for such partings and so he bowed his head in thanks.

Daewen grasped his upper arm in a friendly gesture of solidarity. "Your thanks are well received, but unnecessary, Harry Potter," she said and Harry could almost feel the sentiment behind it. "I would name you friend, and there are no debts between friends."

He mirrored her gesture. "I will remember it still. Go well, Daewen."

They broke apart and Daewen reached for one of her blades which she then presented to Harry, much to his astonishment.

"I cannot take this," he said quietly as he looked at the beautiful weapon. He knew he might need to defend himself out in the wilds but it just felt wrong to take the Elven blade. It was as if the beauty of the blade reminded him of his own ugly appearance.

"It is but a dagger," she said reasonably. "Camaenor will be able to forge me another and I think it will see you better than it would me. Your journey is long and it will not be easy."

He reached out and grasped the short blade by its fine sweeping handle. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You must have had it for so long."

She smiled fondly and nodded. "Near six hundred years," she said as her eyes looked over the blade again before releasing it to his hold. "It was granted to me after the Siege of Imladris. It will serve you well."

Harry pulled the short yet flawless weapon from its beautifully simple sheath and marvelled at it. He did not know much of blades but even he could appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into the dagger. The metal of the blade shone clear silver in the sun and Harry thought it could outdo even the Sword of Gryffindor in appearance.

"Use it well, Harry Potter," Daewen said at last, she lowered her head. "Na lû e-govaned vîn."

It was one of the phrases of Elvish she had taught him on their travels. Even had he not recognised the words as those of a fond farewell the sentiment was clear enough. "Galu, Daewen," he responded a little thickly. Another word of Elvish, a simple goodbye.

Then he turned and so did she and both stepped out upon the path that they hoped would bear them home. Harry looked ahead and saw the wide sweeping plains of the vale of the Anduin. He had many more miles to travel. But they would not weigh so heavily upon him now for he knew he had at least one friend in this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daewen will crop up again in future but Harry must find his own place in Middle-earth. I'm not covering the Middle-earth stuff in my author's notes this time round as Harry has no idea either so I like leaving it unspoken for the most part. Daewen's a little annoying as she doesn't talk to Men much so she has a habit of referring to people and places by their elven names which may cause some confusion. All in good fun, eh?


	4. Into the East

It took only a single day for Harry to begin to regret his decision to carry on alone. After so long in the dungeons of Carn Dûm, and so many lonely years before that, he had thought the separation would be easy to manage. He was wrong.

His early childhood had been so utterly devoid of friendship or real emotional connection that when he looked back upon it in later years he often found himself wondering how he'd managed to make it through quite so well. If not for a well-meaning young teacher at his primary school he would not have been able to claim even one person as a friend during those years.

Yet he had been delivered from that life by a new life at Hogwarts, much as he had been delivered from the darkness of Carn Dûm. He had met Hermione and Ron, Fred, George, Neville, Ginny, Luna and so many more. Often he'd been blind to them, instead he had believed in the gossip and rumour mongering that had followed his every step and allowed it to drive a wedge between them all too often. It wasn't until he had to endure a year of unbearable hardship that he'd truly come to appreciate what they'd all done for him over the years.

He had to return to them. Even if it was too late to help them, even if Voldemort had won and the world had been crushed beneath his insane need for power. He could not accept defeat if there was even the slimmest possibility that he could yet help them.

Yet he already felt he might have found a friend in this place. That was something that actually concerned him; he missed her company. She may have found him uncomfortable to be around but she was at least better than the near silence and sighing winds of the dales below the Misty Mountains. Even so he couldn't allow himself to get too close to any of the people here. He had to remain focused on his most important task. He had to return to his friends. Each night he saw their blurry faces and heard their voices. He was willing to do whatever it would take to see them again, hear them again.

That was why he'd continued on without Daewen. Had he remained in some comfortable place among kind people it would surely have made his task that much harder, not easier. He couldn't allow himself to become attached to the people or places of this world. They could be nothing more to him than a temporary distraction. He had set himself a task, to find a path home, and he would see it completed. If the sorcerers of the East had no knowledge that could help him then he would look elsewhere. It was that simple.

Day after gruelling day disappeared beyond the Misty Mountains now sitting heavily upon the western horizon at Harry's back. He stopped counting them after a while as without anyone at his side they ceased to have any real meaning. Each morning the sun rose bright over the eastern horizon and was greeted by a sparse chorus of birdsong from amid the low scrub and ever present heather. He would then awaken to a sight more beautiful than any he'd seen a long year as the sky was painted in hues of vibrant red, orange and pink.

The sunsets over Hogwarts had also been breathtaking in their beauty, he remembered. A few nights he'd sat atop the Astronomy Tower just to see the rolling green hills of the Scottish highlands bathed in an impossible riot of colour and slowly advancing shadows. Each morning that memory would be thrust upon him and he would, for a short few minutes at least, feel like he was home again.

Sometimes in the brief periods when he'd been left alone within his cell at Carn Dûm he would try and remember the peace and happiness he'd felt on those nights. When finally the sun set below the hill west of Hogwarts and the stars had sparkled like diamond dust in the vaults of the sky he could look out and feel his problems ebb away. They would always seem so insignificant in the face of the eternal beauty that shone above his head on those nights.

The light of those stars followed him even into the blackest of darkness far beyond the reach of the sun. Even after a day of unspeakable torture he could close his eyes and feel the shadow over his spirit lift as the stars glimmered in his mind's eye.

As he awoke each morning to the bright dawn of Middle-earth he hoped he would be able to see his own stars shining overhead once again.

Once awoken, he would walk. At long last his strength was mostly returned and he made good time each day in his journey towards the East. He had far to go before his recovery would be complete as much of the damage done would surely require magic to heal. Despite that, he had become accustomed to those injuries that remained. As he moved he did so in a way that reduced the pulling of his scars and as he ate he was able to chew carefully with a few of his undamaged teeth. It was a sad thought that he might get used to the situation and accept it, but for the time being he had little option.

For more than a week he followed the winding path of the Langwell river and rested each night upon its banks. The cheerful burbles of the clear water were a constant companion at his side through each of those days.

A few days into his journey he encountered a small village built upon the banks of the crystalline Langwell waters. He saw it from a distance, a collection of turf buildings similar to some of the pictures he remembered from the early Goblin Rebellions. Each was roughly circular and built of earth and wood with a high conical roof. Around the cluster of dwellings was a simple palisade of wooden stakes driven into the ground.

As he drew slowly closer he noticed that all was not right with the scene before him. Parts of the palisade had been blackened by fire or torn down. Within the settlement smoke curled from blackened sod atop the roofs of two of the buildings. A another three had collapsed completely and all that remained was a low outer wall of scorched earth. Of the buildings he'd seen only one had survived whatever disaster had come to this place without significant damage.

Harry found himself entering the ruined settlement despite knowing what he would find there. All about the settlement was death. More than a half a dozen bodies lay between the few buildings, each had been hewn cruelly by their attackers.

The attackers were clear enough to Harry, Orcs. A few lay where they had been felled by the desperate defenders. Orcs had no concept of respect for the dead, it was only by some fortunate chance that the victorious Orcs had not consumed the dead where they lay. They would not have differentiated between the bodies of their own and the bodies of their victims.

The attack could not have been that long ago, perhaps the night before last by Harry's reckoning. It had been long enough for the word to be spread among the ravens of the North and many had converged upon the ravaged settlement.

Harry shooed them away from the human bodies and left them to worry over the foul Orc corpses. It was a pointless battle though, each time he would move away the birds would again converge upon the remains. They almost completely ignored the bodies of the Orcs, Harry did not blame them.

He looked through the few buildings that were still standing and found much the same within each. The scorched and blackened remains of now ruined or ended lives. He did not know how many people he should expect in a settlement of this size but he came to a count of 11 bodies before he finally made his way to the last hut. It was largest and he had left it for last as he was concerned about what he might find in there.

The cloying stench of death assailed him as soon as he crossed the threshold and he was met by a scene of barbarity.

Orc corpses lay across all the floor and at last answered the question of why they had no consumed the killed men and women outside. In all more than two dozen Orcs had died in the attack, and most of those had died within this hut.

At the far end of the single room was a powerful giant of a man with long bloodied dirty blond hair. It was obvious to Harry that he was no longer alive as he sat slumped in his own dried blood, sword still gripped strongly in his hand. Beside him was a woman who was alive though.

The moment he saw her Harry rushed to her side and tried to look at her injury. She was grey, thin and willowy and looked so fragile that Harry was amazed she had survived so long with the injuries she had. Her grey eyes were fuzzy and unclear, focussed on something Harry could not see and her pale golden hair fell in a mess about her face and front. Her hands lay cold at her belly, covering a bloody wound that had become black around the edges.

He carefully raised her hand so that he could get a better look at the wound but before he could she gasped in pain and Harry heard a young voice shout angrily behind him.

"Fortholian wierdan modor!" Harry felt something long and heavy strike him across his shoulders painfully.

He spun around and was confronted by a boy of no more than seven years of age. Short but stocky he had the same hair as the man whom Harry assumed was his father. His blue eyes flashed with anger and stubborn defiance. In his hand he held a sword much too large for him, one of the heavy serrated blades carried by the Orcs. Harry was glad that the boy had been unable to control the ill-balanced weapon and had only struck him with the flat.

Behind the boy came an older girl, maybe twelve or thirteen years old and who looked very much like her mother. "Brothor!" she cried and pulled him back and away from Harry. She then fixed Harry with a look of such fire that Harry was impressed. Even here, amid the ruin of her people and her family she possessed a courage that left Harry genuinely awed.

"I'm going to try and help her," he said calmingly. He tried to inject some confidence into his tone but it did not look like the girl was much impressed.

"Helpan?" the boy asked hopefully from behind the girl. "Thu helpan modor?"

"Helpan?" echoed Harry. The sounds of their language were not completely alien though he knew he couldn't really communicate. "Yes, I help... helpan modor." He pointed at the woman sat on the floor.

"Audofleda," said the boy as he turned anxious blue eyes towards the girl. "He con haelen hire."

The girl did not look convinced but a weak grunt from the mother broke down the last of her resistance and she nodded at him apprehensively. "Lician, haelen hire," she said at last.

Harry nodded and immediately set about his work. A thin tin bottomed pot was over the cold fire-pit in the middle of the room and he quickly emptied it of the cold gruel held within.

He looked around for water, the stream was nearby but he didn't want to have to run to it. "Water?" he asked the girl hopefully.

"Water?" she asked with furrowed brows before understanding dawned. "Waeter?" She jumped quickly over to what Harry quickly realised was the family water but.

He filled the pot and called for the boy and girl to get the fire re-lit. "Fire," he said as he pointed to the cold ashes. The boy immediately moved into action and in a few short seconds had kindled the beginnings of a fire in the earthen hearth.

Harry instead focused on his own task, healing the external injury and possible infection. Here he saw an opportunity to experiment with the herb that Daewen had mentioned when they had discussed his potion craft. She had left him a small amount in the pack gifted to him. It was supposed to fight corruption in some way though Harry did not know the specifics.

For the rest of the potion he mixed together ingredients with a healing association. A simple wound like that inflicted upon the woman was relatively easy to heal using a potion. Regrowing things that would not naturally heal was where the real difficulty lay in healing potions. Regrowing flesh or blood was no hard task, the body would do it without aid eventually.

Nonetheless it was important that the potioneer balanced the undesirable qualities of each ingredient. They then had to ensure that the mixing was done correctly to direct the results in the right direction, towards the prefered application for the potion. Anyone who paid attention in their OWLs could probably manage a workable healing potion if those steps were followed.

He opted for a salve as the woman was hovering at the edge of consciousness despite the constant encouraging words from her daughter. It took nearly twenty minutes to thicken the salve enough to use and by that point the woman had at last succumbed to unconsciousness. A panicked cry from the boy had almost caused Harry to knock his potion into the fire and he immediately shuffled over to the woman to check that she still lived.

She still had a faint and ever so thready pulse and Harry knew she wouldn't have much longer. under the ever watchful eyes of the woman's daughter he began daubing the thick and surprisingly pleasant smelling mixture on the wound. The effect was immediate and miraculous even to Harry.

The flesh regrew quickly and in seconds the gaping hole had closed up entirely. The black foulness that had taken root in her injury melted away immediately upon contact with the salve. The two children gasped in wonder as they watched colour visibly return to their mother's face.

When after a few short minutes her eyes fluttered open and focused on her children sitting before her the boy and girl leaped upon her and hugged her fiercely.

Harry sighed in puzzled relief and turned to tidy up his ingredients. He would need to take a much closer look at Daewen's Athelas if it could produce such effects in such a short time. He decided it would be for the best if he kept the remaining mixture for as long as he could. It was possibly even more effective than the potions he'd seen administered by Madam Pomfrey.

He was pulled from his thoughts when small arms wrapped around him. "Thancian thu!" he cried joyfully. "Min feorh belimpen to thu."

"Hsh Audovald," said the girl and she dragged him off Harry. "Thu sie samod geonglic." She turned to Harry and bowed to him. She grasped his hand and placed it upon her head and said, "Eall se is ure is thin."

Harry felt uneasy with the gesture, though he did not know what it meant or what her words said. He carefully pulled his hand from her grip and tried to brush his actions off as nothing. "There's no need to thank me," he said pointlessly. They had just as much comprehension of Westron as he had of their language.

"Bearnen!" spoke the voice of his patient much stronger than she should have been able given her recent injury. "He ne forstandan thu."

She pushed herself painfully upright though only the tightness of her features betrayed her discomfort to Harry. "Thanking you," she said in passable Westron. "Owe life to you. All is yours."

"You owe me nothing," he said as he attempted to speak as simply as possible. "You have nothing to give." He waved his arm about to indicate the destroyed village and lives that surrounded them.

"Have swords," she said firmly, a proud light shining in her eyes, Harry could see where the daughter got her fire. "Lives yours. Lodihilde, Audofleda, Audovald, yours."

Were they swearing fealty to him? "No!" he cried in dismay, "I can't protect you."

"Already saved us," the woman pointed out before her eyes turned sadly to her dead husband. "Clodowig dead, others dead. Audovald not old enough."

"Then go to another village." Harry said as reasonably as he could manage. "You would be protected there. You must know one?"

"There is," she allowed slowly though it was obvious the thought was unfamiliar to her.

"I am travelling, I cannot bring you with me," he said in an attempt to drive home his advantage. "If you stay safe I will be happy."

She did not look at all happy about Harry's attempts to weasel out of a life debt. It was obvious they treated them with the same solemnity as wizards did. Finally, though, after a long minute of thought they decided to accept his argument. Harry supposed they really had little choice in the matter.

"When you stop to travel," she said eventually. "Come here. Blood of Clodowig will always give aid, payment."

Harry could accept that, at least it meant he would not be responsible for their lives. "Then I accept."

They offered him the chance to stay and he turned them down. It was yet morning and he knew he still had many leagues to cover in his journey east. Instead he took from them a little of their food and went on his way. They promised to leave too once the village had been laid to rest. Harry had offered to help them but they had been adamant in their refusal and so he had bowed to their determination.

He had little desire to perform that grizzly job anyway. His journey continued eastwards, behind him a slow lament was sung by Lodihilde over the bodies of the dead and her two children began to prepare them for proper burial. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought of leaving them alone in a land ravaged by Orcs unleashed by the destruction of Angmar but he knew that there would be little he could do to protect them. There was little enough he could do to protect himself.

Days later he came to the join between the Langwell and another river running down from the dark and grey mountains to the North. He followed the river back up its route in the hope of finding a place where he might cross it in safety. It him a day of travel before he found a place where the river was shallow enough for him to consider crossing.

The grassy banks dipped low towards the water and the river was edged by thin strips of sand and pebbles. The river was wider and shallower here than anywhere else he'd seen that day though the waters still ran fast down its channel. Nearby upon his bank was a small stand of gnarled pine trees, each near bare of needles and bent by the winds that must surely howl across the lowlands in the depths of winter.

Despite this place being the best option yet for a crossing point he was still not confident of his ability to make the cross safely. To help him in the crossing he found a long thick branch to use as extra support against the flow of the water.

Upon entering the frigid water he was immediately glad he had opted for the aid. The water swirled in eddies about him and on a couple of occasions threatened to topple him when the loose gravel and sand of the riverbed shifted beneath him. Upon reaching the far shore he realised the mistake he had made.

The small pack gifted to him by Daewen had been kept above the water and any splashes were easily turned aside by the Elvish cloth. Unfortunately his own clothes were not of similar make and became heavy with the freezing mountain runoff. The heavy woolen clothes worn by the Men of Eärnur's army were cold and leaden with the weight of the river water.

He cursed and thought wistfully of the simple drying charm he'd learned in his time at Hogwarts. He quickly pulled himself out of the garments, gifted to him by one of the Quartermasters of Eärnur's army and wrung them out before setting about making a fire. He had become adept at it over the weeks and soon the warm dancing flames were crackling merrily upon the banks of the river.

It would take some time to dry his clothes out even with the fire and he found his mind wandering as he watched the flames lick at the wood he piled upon them. As it so often did his mind turned to his still untouched magic. Just as before he could feel it, that pleasant warmth playing beneath his skin and he still couldn't find a way to release it. In the weeks with Daewen he'd made a few half-hearted attempts at producing spells without his wand. He never found any reason to have much real hope and nothing resulted from his token efforts.

His problem was that he was aware of the possibility in very general terms. After all he'd done a lot of magic of some form as a child, he'd even seen Voldemort controlling that magic when he was a boy. He simply couldn't work out how to make it happen.

The spells he'd learned could never work wandlessly. From what he remembered of the theory the wand motions were integral to the formation of the spell and the focus point was needed to direct the result.

Wand magic was an order of magnitude more complicated than potions. Much as potioncraft could be reduced to a complex cookbook of sorts, a series of instructions to be followed to reach a singular result, the greater craft of magic was distilled into spells.

He was sure that those spells must express some deeper meaning, much as the ingredients of a potion did. But he could not fathom how that meaning came about. A flower symbolised life, beauty and mortality, that much was clear. What deeper meaning could you glean from a wand movement or some words in a language that was almost, but not quite, latin?

He'd had some time to think about it over the last weeks and still did not feel he'd come to a satisfactory answer. He needed to experiment if he was to have any hope of understanding it and yet he was without a wand, and without a wand he had very little to work with indeed.

But he'd been without a potions textbook too. Perhaps it was merely a question of need and determination.

He fixed his mind on the fire before him and tried to understand just what it truly was. He knew he was flying blind in this for he had little real appreciation for what he even meant to attempt. He wanted to try somehow and combine the heat of the fire with the moisture in the clothing to drive the water from them.

Heat, how could he describe heat to someone who had never known the feeling? That was what he needed to do, he needed to appreciate the warmth as more than just a by-product of the fire but as a thing of its own. Heat was life; it gave life, it sustained it, and it was produced by it. There was no line between the two things, where life was, so too was heat, warmth. He had to know that and project it fully into his wet clothes.

Heat was passion, a drive and determination to see a task through to the bitter end. Just as a fire burned until its fuel was completely gone, he had to understand true determination if he was to achieve his goal.

He focused on those two ideas until they became almost physical entities. He could feel the magic within him roiling sympathetically as he focused those thoughts upon the wet clothes before him. Finally he slowly released his gathered magic into the air about him and opened his eyes to gaze upon his handiwork.

His hanging clothes still lay heavy and sodden upon the ground by the crackling fire. Was there perhaps slightly less of a chill in the air? Did Harry feel just a little warmer? He was not sure. In all likelihood if he was feeling less of a chill it was most likely to be from the fire and not his most recent magical failure.

He swore quietly in frustration. He needed to find some way of accessing his magic. He was as good as helpless if attacked by a party like that at the village days before. He felt sure that he would not easily come by the knowledge of how he came to be here, he would almost certainly have to fight someone.

With an annoyed sigh he pushed himself upright and decided to try and make the best of the situation. Perhaps a warm lunch would allow him to temporarily forget his current magical inability.

o-o

The weather began to deteriorate as Harry travelled further into the East. Winter was drawing in and brought with it wind and rain. Harry's progress was much slowed by the conditions as the clothes gifted to him quickly became soaked through in the wind-driven rain. Throughout the week the days never came into full brightness as the steely clouds hung firmly overhead.

Even in the cold and dismal weather he was always on the hunt for his next meal. Daewen had gifted him most of her remaining supplies along with her pack but he was determined to use them only for emergencies. The Elvish supplies would keep for many months and would keep him moving for many weeks thanks to their seemingly magical ability to sate his hunger.

He was glad that they had stopped burning him some time ago, neither he nor Daewen had understood how that had come to happen but it stopped a short few days after Daewen had joined him openly on his travels. Another strange ability of the Elves. He dearly wished he had the time to remain and understand their magic in more depth. It seemed to be a part of them, as natural as breathing and he couldn't imagine how much he might learn from them.

Surely Hermione would be most interested to hear of them. Harry smiled fondly at the thought. Knowing Hermione she would seek a way to return to Middle-earth purely for the opportunity to study the new and unfamiliar magic.

It was those infrequent thoughts of home and of his friends that pushed him ever onwards. The wind and rain grew worse for a time and there was little enough shelter to be found on the northern marches through which he walked.

More than a week of increasingly wet and cold days later he noticed a shadow brooding upon the horizon. A great dark wood filled with ancient trees and deceitful whispers. The huge trunks were packed close and the canopy was so thick and impenetrable that Harry could see no more than a few meters into its shadowy depths. The air of the forest felt heavy and dead, the smell of rot and decay came to his nose.

He moved beneath the shelter of its twisted branches even despite his misgivings for the rain was again coming down heavily upon him and had been for some time. He was willing to put up with the hushed silence if it meant he could dry his soaked clothes for a time.

The air beneath the eaves made his skin crawl, it as if there was something there that hated him beyond all else. It was the feeling he felt when looked upon by the likes of Voldemort or his Death Eaters. There was something about it that burned within the mind's eye.

To the north the wood curved slowly towards the east and it looked to Harry as if he might be able to skirt by the sea of trees that way without having to enter wholly within. No doubt the land to the north was just as barren and joyless as all the land he had crossed in the last week but he would accept that if it would lead him closer to his goal of returning home.

As so many things did the wood reminded him of home. It felt to him somewhat similar to the Forbidden Forest upon the Hogwarts grounds and yet at the same time he noted the differences. Where the Forbidden Forest was dark and ominous it had also been home to many things both fair and good. He could not imagine a unicorn surviving long within the confines of the murky wood before him.

He journeyed then to the north and east along the boundary of the wood. Usually he walked outside the wood, away from its stifling influence but each time the weather rolled in he would take reluctant refuge within the thick and noisome forest. He never went beyond sight of the forest's edge.

Long days of wet and dismal travelling brought Harry eventually to another river. This one much broader and faster than the last. It flowed out of the north and ran under the dark boughs of the murky forest. Before resigning himself to travelling upstream to find a crossing point Harry searched a short way down the river's path into the wood.

He was careful, always, to keep his eye upon the feeble light filtering in from beyond the boundary of the wood. He felt sure that if he stepped beyond the sight of his bearings in this place he would surely be left wholly lost within the dark depths of the suspicious wood. His senses prickled and something itched in the dark recesses of his mind.

It seemed that luck was with him on this occasion for not far into the wood a huge forest giant had been felled by time and rot. It lay across the shallow gorge cut by the swift waters of the forest river. So broad was the trunk of the great oak tree that Harry was able to walk across it easily with only his stave at his side for balance.

When he reached halfway across the river he felt the burning presence that had been licking at the back of his mind grow so much that it felt almost a physical thing. He spun on the spot and held the wooden stave out to ward off the dark shadow that he could feel clinging about him.

The darkness was thick and seemed to ooze into his mind as it whispered unheard promises of power and vengeance in his mind. His knuckles went white on the stave he brandished as he tried to force the whispers away. He had no idea what he was trying to do but he did know that he did not want the dark whispers to gain a new foothold within his mind.

Quite suddenly he felt a shock run through him and a momentary burst of power tore from him. It was weak and completely undirected but for the first time since he'd been brought to this place he felt his magic released if only for a moment. A pale flash of light flared in his eyes and the darkness was pushed back and he could feel it retreat south.

Harry quickly completed his crossing of the river and leapt gratefully onto the far bank. He immediately felt much recovered, as if a heavy weight had been removed from about his neck. The feeling of the forest was not unlike Voldemort's locket Horcrux when it had hung around his neck on those days now so distant. North of the stream, though, the feeling weakened. No longer could he feel a dark presence twisting the woods against him, now it felt like the natural wariness of a long untouched forest.

He still had little desire to remain under those dark boughs, however. The memory of the cloying darkness was altogether too familiar to him and he would not wish to tempt fate by remaining within its domain. He took a short moment to appreciate the much greater beauty and liveliness of the northern wood before moving quickly back out of the forest so that he could carry on with his journey.

o-o

It had been more than two months since his release from the dungeons of Carn Dûm, and more than a month since he'd parted from Daewen in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. The huge dark wood had finally given way to more open plains to the south and there upon the distant horizon in the hazy south stood a single lonely mountain. It thrust up from the low heathland around it and brushed the white clouds that swelled around it.

But that was not what drew Harry's immediate attention. Instead his eye was drawn to a faded column of smoke rising over a hill not far to the east of him. The day was completely still and clear after so much rain. His breath hung in the air and the sky overhead was a crisp icy blue. He was grateful for the clear weather for without it he might never have noticed the smoke and as it looked like it was coming from a dip between a number of hills he might have walked by and never known any better.

He had come to realise that he knew very little of the land into which he was travelling. Daewen had known in the vaguest sense, from stories or histories passed down to her, and she had told him what she knew. He still knew too little. He did not not how far the journey would be nor the lands he would have to cross.

He did not know much of the people he might encounter. Daewen believed the East to be riven by war between the servants of darkness and those who had the aid of Curunír. Daewen had told him that one hundred years ago a group of Men whom she called the Grachron in Sindarin, the 'Wain-ones' in Westron, had attacked Gondor from the east. Very little had been heard of them since but she'd heard rumours that they had splintered into a thousand small warring tribes.

He hoped they were not aggressive.

When he crested the final low rolling hill he came to a sudden stop as he laid impressed eyes upon what was beyond.

Perhaps twenty or more large wagons drawn up into a defensive circle around a dozen large fires. Though they were of a rude, boxy make each was large enough to house an entire family. They were covered in skins and furs and a few had huge antlers adorned upon their roofs like trophies.

The fires in the central area were spread out and each had a small group surrounding them. He could see men and women sitting clustered close to their warmth as children ran back and forth their pure voices raised in excitement and laughter as they chased each-other across the ring. He could hear the distant melody of a stringed instrument and a deep male voice sang a slow lament. He could not recognise the words but the sentiment was clear, it was a song of sadness and loss and his mind wandered for a moment to all the friends he had lost in the war against Voldemort.

Outside the perimeter wagons dozens of huge heavy set horses covered in thick formless hair grazed upon the sparse grass and he could see two men standing watch over them atop one of the other surrounding hills.

Almost the moment he saw them they too saw him. One raised an arm and pointed towards where Harry stood exposed atop the hill and the harsh cry of a horn rang out across the encampment. Immediately the women herded the children into the middle of the camp before joining the men at the perimeter. Men and women both hefted rough weapons in their hands and stared up at him in what he imagined to be suspicion.

Harry could see that they were very nervous indeed and so began walking slowly towards their camp with his free arm raised and his hand open in a gesture of peace. In his other hand he held his ever reliable stave, he was careful not to use it threateningly. It felt like it took an age but eventually a small group of five men came out to greet him, each carrying an assortment of their crude looking weapons.

He thought for a moment that perhaps he should have thought this through before-hand. If they chose to pit themselves against him then he would not find himself in a good position.

Each of the men was tall and broad, with dark hair and heavy ragged beards. There was a wild look about them that dredged up now distant memories of his very first friend Hagrid. He held close the hope that they would be as affable as he had been.

"Beliva-der!" called one of the men in deep gruff tones. Harry could not understand them and so he stopped cautiously where he was, he did not want to aggravate them if he could avoid it. He kept his unoccupied hand raised as he gripped his stave firmly, he found the presence reassuring.

"Hello?" he called hopefully. "Do you speak Westron?"

The men, who had continued to advance upon him weapons at the ready glanced at one of their number. He was the largest and hairiest and carried a huge heavy cudgel in both hands. Now that he was close enough Harry could just make out the sparkle of light blue eyes held within the tanned and wrinkled face.

"Why you come here?" he said. His accent was strong and barely understandable but Harry could at least comprehend the meaning.

"I am travelling east," he explained and he began to drop his arm in relief that they were willing to talk. "I hoped to learn more of those lands from you."

Three of the men talked quietly to each other in their language while the other two watched him warily and did not relax. The discussion went on for some time and Harry noticed many significant looks that were shot his way. Eventually, after what seemed to Harry to be an interminable age, they broke up and the leader nodded at Harry.

"You come," he said as he gestured for the men around him to lower their weapons. "I am Thiadulf of Rethlapa. Rethlapa will welcome you."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as bow-strings loosened and he was no longer looking down the shaft of more than one arrow. "I am Harry Potter," he said and lowered his head respectfully. They still looked tense but at least they were not now openly hostile. The leader took a few steps closer to Harry.

"Harry Potter is a Wizard?" Thiadulf asked as he pointed at the stave Harry carried.

Harry was unsure how to respond. By his own measure he was now barely a wizard. More than a squib, certainly and with potions he could apparently do magic unknown to even an Elf.

"Yes, a little." He settled for downplaying any abilities he still had.

It was the right answer, Thiadulf relaxed as did one of the others who had come with him. A short whispered conversation among the others and they too relaxed finally.

"Then you will be known to Frodrinc!" Thiadulf smiled and slapped his chest. "More aid against the Dark Men, no?"

Harry's brow furrowed as he tried to remember that name from the seemingly never ending list provided to him by Daewen. "Frodrinc?"

"The White Wizard!" said Thiadulf enthusiastically. He started to lead Harry towards the circle of large Wains. "He freed us from the Dark Ones."

As he followed Harry grasped at that information. He hoped that Frodrinc would be able to help him with his problem. Perhaps they would also know Curunír of whom Daewen spoke. After months of making no true progress to his goal there was finally a possible light shining at the end of the tunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on translation conventions. Westron is not actually English, as should already be clear, even things like Hobbit names are translated, for example Frodo is actually called 'Maura' and Peregrin Took is called 'Razanur Tûk'. By equal measure the language of the Rohirrim is not actually Old English. Instead it's a mostly undescribed language that has a similar relationship to Westron as Old English does to modern English. Thus to give an authentic feel to an English speaker reader so that a speaker of English gets a similar level of familiarity as a speaker of Westron would, Tolkien rendered the few rohirric words as Old English.
> 
> So I'm continuing that here. The Easterlings will speak a few languages but they will be based on Old Frisian and Saxon where I need authentic sounding words (mostly names). The Rohirrim originally came from Rhovanion and it makes sense that their language would be a relative of the languages used further to the east. The closest relatives to Old English are Old Frisian and Saxon. So there you go. My translations will generally be naive translations (word for word using modern English sentence structure) but I think they'll suffice for now.
> 
> Once again I wont be translating the stuff that the pov character does not understand. It will be fairly rarely used and so it shouldn't cause any issues.


	5. Towards a Meeting of Wizards

The Rethlapa were a simple folk but hardy. Harry found himself enjoying life with them even despite the language barrier. Of the tribe of perhaps two dozen families fewer than ten spoke enough Westron to hold a conversation with him. Even so Harry never wanted for company during his time with them. Upon his arrival amongst them Thiadulf took much joy in introducing Harry to every member of his group, Harry quickly found himself lost in a sea of names.

"These are my sons," said Thiadulf as he beamed with unrepressed pride at the two boys who stood before Harry. The first was perhaps sixteen or seventeen and had many of the features of his father though he had yet to grow into them. The younger was no more than six and stared up at Harry with wide blue eyes. Thiadulf had then continued, "Thiadward the elder and Thiadwi is the younger. A Wizard's blessing will have them grow strong!"

Harry's eyes had flicked to the large man at his side as he tried to work out what he meant. He wanted Harry to 'bless' the children in some way? Harry did not think there was any magic that could do that so easily. The closest thing he knew was the protection his own mother had granted but such things ran deep in the blood, bone and magic and no mere words could express that kind of gift.

Instead he had placed a hand upon their foreheads and said a few words in English, "May you grow strong, live long and know friendship and love in all your years." The words felt stupid and empty to him, as if he was taking part in one of the plays at his old primary school but it seemed to satisfy Thiadulf.

The chief of the Rethlapa had slapped a hand heavily upon the shoulders of his children then shook them as he said, "En graten jeve thi haebben weta na."

Both boys bowed their heads to Harry and muttered quiet words that Harry could barely hear, their meaning was clear though. They were thanking him. He did not know how to respond and so merely smiled and nodded his head as if he understood. It seemed to satisfy them.

Then Harry was hurried onto the next; a bowed old crone with but a single protruding tooth, then a weathered warrior who had more scars crisscrossing his face than even Harry, then a girl with straw coloured hair and rosy complexion. Then Thiadulf's wife, Enna, a tired but kind looking brunette. More and more were brought to him and Harry floundered and began to feel besieged by the numbers of smiling and enthusiastic faces.

He had sighed in relief when finally Thiadulf left Harry's side to preside over the preparations for a feast in his honour. He'd tried to find a quiet corner to sit down and calm himself. He hadn't realised just how uncomfortable he had become around people.

In his first week with the Rethlapa that much desired peace rarely came. He was an item of both awe and curiosity. A small gaggle of children and teenagers followed him wherever he went and the only respite he had been able to find was when he ducked quietly into one of the covered wains as they marched slowly across the eastern plains.

The Rethlapa led a fairly harsh life, like all the tribes and groups that wandered the great plains of Rhûn. They had a small herd of hardy goats which provided them with milk, cheese and a small amount of meat on occasion. Their horses were their most precious commodity, they were huge hairy beasts that Harry felt looked like a mix between shire horses and highland cattle. They were not pretty beasts, not easy to tame and impossible to ride but they were hardy, and hardy was the most important quality one could possess upon the plains of Rhûn.

Each night, around the fire, he listened to tales from the other tribe members. The aged and scarred warrior, who Harry discovered was called Wambald, translated them as they were told.

There was the Bitiwind, the wind with teeth as Wambald translated it. A constant gnawing, grating wind that rose up on the plains in the early months of the year. They told old tales of men who'd lost their minds in the unrelenting wind and of children who'd been near flayed when dust and sand had been whipped up into the gale when they'd strayed too far from the home-wains.

Another told tales of great worms that burrowed through deep rock and stone, the great wereworms of the furthest East. No more than a tale to the Rethlapa, who did not travel so far beyond civilisation but what tales they were.

Huge creatures said to be more than a hundred meters long. They had great maws studded with sharp glittering diamond teeth and they put through the stone of the Eastern wastes like a fish through water. One of the old women told the tale of a wanderer who'd walked the winding tunnels of the wereworms, and had seen a great city of light beneath the earth where the were-king held court.

That led into tales of the great dragons and wyrms of the North, huge beasts near as large as a wereworm but with breath of flame and a cruel and cunning intelligence. They sounded like larger versions of the dragons Harry knew from his home, but it was their intelligence and magical power that was most feared. They could steal the memories from a man or curse him to insanity. Merely fighting a dragon was a great tale for the campfire but few of those tales had a happy outcome, most died in the moment of their victory, as the final spite of the dragon led them to their doom.

There were also stories of great raids into the west. The most recent just thirty years ago. That was why many of the elders spoke the language of the West. Wambald himself had been a young warrior at the Battle of Svartfior, the Battle of Fire in the Dark, when the army of Gondor had descended upon the camp of the coalition of Rhûn in the darkness. He pointed to a cruel jagged scar that ran across his eye and nose as he explained what had happened.

"Herumor the Great led us," he explained, his eyes distant. "A great warrior, but cruel. He was not of the plains folk, he came from the East or the South, I do not know. He wielded a great power and none among the tribes had the strength to stand against him."

All eyes were on Wambald as he began his tale, one of the other older women murmured low as he spoke and translated his words for the younger members.

"He came to our people in the days of my grandfather's grandfather and seemed never to age. Always tall, always strong as iron and cruel as the winds. The tales say we tried to fight; we were of the North and Herumor commanded us to wage war against the South. The chief of the time tried to defy his command but he and his greatest warriors were all bested in moments. It is said Herumor wore nothing more than the fine silks of the men of the East when he laid the tribe low, so great was his strength. By the time I was born we had been following him to war for more years than I can count.

"He claimed his strength came from his master but he was the only master we ever knew. He led us on great raids on the soft people of the South, their villages and cities fell to our warriors. Even their Kings died at our hands and we took the women and children as slaves to be sold or enjoyed." He looked remorseful as he remembered his actions as a young man.

"Slavery was not the way of the plains folk before his coming, we were proud and equal. What value is a slave to us? Just another mouth to feed; two more feet to ache. But he gave us a taste of renown, the greatest glory our people had ever known. The great realms of the South trembled at our passing." The younger members of the audience listened enraptured as he continued.

"Ondoher of Gondor was slain by Herumor's own hand at the Battle Beneath the Mountains and his line was broken. We believed that victory had come at last, that the Kingdom of the South had been laid low and ended at our blades. We celebrated long and well, I remember it well, my own wife bore me a son on those days, he was to be called Grimstreda when he grew old enough to take a name." He took a deep swig of the alcoholic drink in his hand.

"They fell upon us in the night, when all were silent or deep in their cups. There was no warning and their horsemen trampled all as they charged through the camp and set the wains aflame. I tried to fight, I stood to protect my wife and my family in the face of the vengeful army of Southrons.

"Some of us tried to flee further South, they hitched the wains and whipped the beasts to their greatest speed in their flight. Most of them died as they fled into the Dead Swamps which swallowed wagons and men both without mercy. I remember their screams, the women and children drowned in mud and blood. I remember Herumor himself being put to flight in the panic, to drown like an unweaned babe in the hungry marshes.

"I was lucky that night, Edilda and the babe escaped into the night with me. The next I was not so lucky. Our people were broken and lost, long years of cruelty meant we had little else. Men, my own people, came upon our camp the next night and left me with this scar when I tried to fight them." His finger traced the long scar slowly.

"They took her, and they killed the babe." He stopped abruptly and stared into the fire morosely.

There was a long awkward silence before one of the women began singing a lament. Harry couldn't understand the words and the tune was simple but the effect still caused his hairs to stand on end. Her voice was a little warbling and unsure but it held such sympathy and sadness that none of that mattered. Soon others joined in and gradually the dark mood was forgotten as the songs became happier and more upbeat. Soon the younger ones were dancing while the elders cheered them on.

Harry sneaked a glance at Wambald who was watching the young dancers with a sad smile on his face as he clapped and struck his knee to the beat. He could not help but feel a very real respect for the man.

o-o

Harry's arrival had signalled a change of direction for the group. The wizard Frodrinc was apparently many weeks march to the east and south but Thiadulf had claimed that seeing Harry to him would be no burden to his people. They were travelling in that direction anyway for they carried many goods and food between the lands in the far east and the Dwarven holds in the Grey Mountains of the North.

Harry had tried to argue that they need not put themselves out for him and Thiadulf had simply laughed it off. There was no greater boon for his people than to bear a Wizard on his way he claimed. After experiencing the seemingly endless goodwill of the Rethlapa Harry was unwilling to deprive them of the good luck they felt his presence would bring them.

However it did mean he had to continue his escapes from the prying eyes and searching but to him incomprehensible questions of the children of the tribe. So it was that he found himself taking refuge within the dark and noisome wain that always brought up the rear of their travelling column.

"You are hiding from the little ones again, Harili?" a voice asked him from the gloom at the back of the wain. He recognised it as the voice of Uda, the eldest of the tribe and a soothsayer of sorts. She was also one of the few who understood Westron and could speak it clearly.

Harili was what she and many of the others called him. He supposed it was unsurprising that they elected to alter his name to have a more ready meaning. Thiadulf had told him that the name meant 'high stranger' or perhaps 'unknown wanderer' and Harry found that curiously fitting for himself. It had the benefit of keeping him separate from them in their minds as well as his own. He did not object to it.

"You have surely seen much greater evil in your past than the curiosity of children?" she inquired as she leaned forward so that she was more visible to him, her dark eyes glittered in the gloom.

"I am sorry, I did not know you were in here," he'd apologised quickly. The children seemed to fear this particular wain and always stayed at a distance from it. He could see why. The interior was hung with the pelts and parts of many animals and the air was heavy with a pungent smell of perfume and decay.

"Hush, child," she said quellingly as she raised herself to her feet within the slowly swaying murk and hobbled closer to him. "You are always welcome here, as you are with any of the Rethlapa."

She took a seat again nearby and gestured to him to join her upon the floor of the wain. After a moment's thought he did so. He had to admit to a significant amount of curiosity in the old woman.

"But perhaps while you are here you would like to talk to one who would listen?" she suggested kindly.

Harry intended nothing of the sort. Instead he opted to ask about her. "I was told you were a soothsayer?" he said quickly.

She smiled broadly and put her single tooth on display as shrewd eyes assessed Harry. "I do not think you are the kind to seek your fate in the fall of bones or the entrails of a hawk."

"Not by choice, that much is certain," Harry admitted. "But as I am here perhaps you could explain how it works?"

Uda cackled so suddenly that Harry started in shock. "It doesn't!" she crowed. "Who would think something made of dirt and water could know anything of the future?"

Harry had the uneasy feeling of a support being pulled out from under him. He had not expected that at all. "It what?"

The aged soothsayer's laughter reduced to a quiet but persistent chuckle before she finally explained. "It's people, child," she said as if such should be obvious. "It is people that weave the fates, you need only ask them, if you know how."

He stared at her smiling and wrinkled face for a long moment as he tried to understand what she was saying. "You mean that you read people's fates in themselves, not the world around them?"

"How would the world know what they will choose?" she asked keenly. "We each have a fate and of it we are the primary architect. Some have the greater, others the lesser and those with great fates may sweep the lesser like dust before them but even the meanest may control their own small fate if they have the will."

Harry considered her words in silence under her approving gaze. In some ways it was not so very alien as it felt. After all, had Dumbledore not said that the prophecy's only power was that granted to it by Voldemort in his fervent belief?

Harry held no illusions that his own fate was the lesser when weighed against that of Voldemort. Voldemort had the power to control the world for an eternity while Harry had only the strength to break it. He knew that creation was always the much greater task when compared to destruction.

His own fate had been swept up in Voldemort's, given reason and purpose by the greater purpose of the Dark Lord. It was a humbling and yet liberating idea. But one question remained.

"What is my fate?" he asked. "Will I be able to return home?"

Uda looked him over again, her eyes roaming across his features and seemingly to take in every aspect of his being. The ever-present perfumed smoke curled between them and for a long moment was the only movement to be seen within the wain.

"Yes," she said simply.

Harry waited a moment as he waited to see if there would be more to come, there was not.

"Is there no more you can tell me?" he pressed.

"Nothing that you do not already know," Uda said with an expressive shrug. "It will be hard, you will have to make sacrifices but should you choose you may return home in time. Wherever that may be."

Could it be that she had some skill as a seeress? Harry did not think so, she certainly had nothing of the bearing of Professor Trelawney. Or perhaps she had some skill at reading the mind of a man? That also seemed unlikely to him for he was sure he would have felt any intrusion even if he had been unable to turn it away.

"How can you know that?" he asked quietly. " _I_ don't know that."

"I think you do," she replied. "You just don't wish to acknowledge it. I can see it in your eyes, you will return home and will not allow anything to stay you. Such a path will always be fraught with danger and sacrifice, and so too will yours."

Harry shifted uneasily as he realised that what she said was of course true. He still clung to the hope that his return might prove easy, that somewhere in a dusty library there was a book that told him how to travel between worlds.

It was a ridiculous idea, and yet still he held to it. If he gave up on it he was not sure what he would do, he wasn't sure what he could do. There simply had to be a way, it was that simple.

They were joined in the gloomy cart by another figure whom Harry recognised as one of the older girls in the group of children that had taken to dogging his every step. The girl with straw coloured hair and ruddy complexion, he tried to remember her name but came up entirely blank. She was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, not all that much younger than Harry himself and yet she looked to him like little more than a child. In her hands she held a bowl of the dried meat that was much of the diet of the Rethlapa.

She belatedly noticed Harry's presence within the cart and a high pitched noise issued from her as her eyes grew wide in surprise. "Sarig!" she said hurriedly. "Ik dwe nawet kanna thu hir."

"Hsh, bern," said Uda kindly to the girl before then turning to Harry. "Young Regana is here to help with my feeding, she will be no bother."

Harry looked at the girl, Regana, again and she carefully avoided his gaze. Her eyes remained steadfastly fixed upon the rough wooden bowl in her hands. For a moment some small part of him wanted to disagree with the old crone and have the girl sent away but he soon realised that it was utterly unreasonable of him to make such demands.

He made up his minds and extended an arm towards the girl in the way of the Rethlapa. Tentatively and very gently the girl grasped his elbow as he did hers, after a moment they released their hold and in her eyes he saw a spark of confidence kindled.

"I am pleased to meet you, Regana." He bowed his head just slightly in greeting.

"Der thu gunga, bern." said Uda to their young companion. "Nu hit is me an min kost."

She quickly bowed her head deferentially and took her seat beside Uda. Much to Harry's surprise Regana then began to chew upon the food she had brought for the old seeress. He watched as the young girl chewed thoroughly upon the tough meat before finally spitting it out and handing it across to the old woman.

"You will be grateful for such thought when you reach my age, child," Uda said a little sharply. Harry realised he'd been staring with an expression of mixed disbelief and distaste and hastily wiped it from his features.

"I am sorry," he said, and he stumbled over his words. "I have never seen that done before."

"Then you are either fortunate that your elders did not have need of it, or unfortunate that you knew no elders at all." She swallowed down another lump of chewed meat and smiled at the young girl beside her.

After that day it became something of a habit for Harry to spend much of his time with the old soothsayer. From her he learned much of the people among which he now walked, much of how they lived felt so familiar to him. They were more like one large family than a group of families, when anyone was ill or injured all would give what aid they could. The children were cared for as a group and each woman of the tribe took turns overseeing the youngest of their children.

She also showed him some of her own magic.

"Thiadulf claims that you are half a wizard," Harry asked one day before they were joined by the now nigh ever-present Regana.

Uda cackled in the now familiar way before pushing herself slowly to her feet to riffle through one of the many bags and pouches that littered her dark caravan. "Not magic, child," he said, her voice muffled as she looked through a large sack. "No more than my soothsaying. Magic is just knowing better than others how things work."

She pulled a small box of greenish powder from the sack and handed it to him. "There's a piece of magic for you. Keep it if you like."

Harry turned the little box this way and that as he looked at the powder within. "What does it do?"

"It makes a fire burn bright green." She grinned artfully. "Very impressive magic."

"That's it?" he blurted out before looking embarrassed.

"That's all it is," she said simply. "But it is not all that is."

Harry paused as he tried to understand her meaning. After a long moment of thought he asked, "Do you mean that the powder and green flame is only one part of it?"

"You're getting better at this!" she crowed happily. Harry had noticed that she seemed to delight in giving cryptic answers and sitting back to watch others puzzle them out. "I told you before that it is people that choose their fates, all I need do is make them believe it is possible."

"You trick people into thinking they have magic behind them?" he asked before he thought about exactly what it was he was saying. He had done the same, had he not, in his sixth year at Hogwarts. When he had tricked Ron into thinking he had been given Felix Felicis he had done exactly what she claimed to do. But surely that was harmless, what Uda was doing was different.

"What else would you do?" she asked with a single raised brow. "I cannot help them myself, I can help them help themselves though."

"But if they had to fight and they thought they had magic as their ally then they may be hurt." said Harry quietly.

"They would be less likely to take hurt if they believed themselves alone?" Uda shook her head. "Hope is never a weakness when the alternative is death."

Harry sat quietly for a long time before finally nodding acceptance. Her point was sound in truth. As long as they did not believe themselves immune to harm then they would surely fight all the harder in the knowledge that there was at least some hope for success.

They were soon joined by Regana as they often were. She'd taken to spending as much time in Uda's wagon as she could manage and both her and Harry were attempting to learn each-other's languages with the ever present help of Uda herself.

"Ic gretan thu, Regana," said Harry in greeting.

She smiled happily but didn't meet his eyes. "I greet you and, Harry."

Harry nodded. "Thankian thu," he said before switching back to Westron. "It would be 'I greet you _too_ '."

There was the slightest flicker of annoyance in her eyes but it was clear that it was directed at herself. Harry was easily outpacing her in his efforts to learn the language of the Rethlapa. It was relatively simple when compared to Westron but used much of the same sentence structure.

"You'll get there," he said encouragingly. "You haven't been learning long. It took me months." He forced down the dark images that came alongside that thought. Those times were behind him.

She offered him a shy but grateful smile and took a seat on the floor with the bowl of food that mad been made up for Uda. Usually the girl sat by Uda but today she elected to settle into a place next to where Harry was seated.

Harry caught the merest flickering of a grin from Uda as she watched and decided it would be for the best if he stretched his legs. He had been spending more and more time in this dark wagon over the last days. He pushed himself upright using the stave that he'd come to carry with him everywhere he went. He found it gave his hands something to do and the solid weight was much soothing to him.

"I am going to join the walkers," he said to them both as he went to leave. "I need to stretch my legs a little. I have been sitting doing little but talk for too long."

Uda nodded seriously, Harry couldn't make a guess at what she was thinking. Regana looked a little disappointed but managed to cover it up well. She smiled at him, revealing her crooked teeth and wished him a good day in Westron.

As it happened the Rethlapa were just about to stop their march for their afternoon meal, the same one now being chewed for Uda by Regana. Harry wound his way through the wagons until he found someone he knew he could talk to.

Wambald was standing by one of the leading wagons talking to a young man who looked a little by Thiadulf to Harry's eyes. He wasn't sure but he didn't think the boy was the elder son, he admitted that he should have made a much greater effort to remember the names of his hosts.

"Harili!" said Wambald with as much enthusiasm as the grizzled warrior ever mustered. "What do you know of wielding that staff of yours?"

Harry glanced at the thick wood of his stave. It was a little over five feet long and a little over an inch in diameter. He realised that he didn't really know what wood it was made from, he'd assumed that the time he'd picked it up that it had fallen from the trees by the river but they'd all been Pine with a light coloured bark. Whatever tree this came from had much darker bark, and very rough. His use of it over the last month had smoothed out a portion around where he usually held it and it had gained a dark lustre.

Whatever it was it would surely be able to do some damage if he was to hit someone with it.

"Not much, I have never needed to know," he said openly.

The elder man shook his head unhappily. "Do not carry a weapon you cannot use," he said firmly. "You should join Liudulf here in his training."

Of all the men in the tribe Wambald was the least awed by Harry's position as 'Wizard'. Harry was grateful to the man that he'd offer something useful rather than joining the children, and a few of the adults, in asking for spells. He seemed to see Harry as little more than a young man who lacked a place in the world. That was actually something of a relief.

"Perhaps I shall, I have need of some activity to keep me from boredom," Harry allowed. "Thiadulf will not allow me to dirty my hands, he says such labours are below a Wizard such as myself."

"No-one is above self-protection," said Wambald firmly.

That evening Harry found himself standing outside the circle of wagons with Wambald, Liudulf and a couple of other young men from the tribe. He could tell immediately that though Wambald was certainly an experienced warrior he didn't have the experience or grace of Daewen.

Liudulf and the others were excited when Harry joined them at their practice and all swarmed towards him babbling words too fast for him to comprehend. Wambald's booming voice soon sent them back to their places with hasty apologies and Harry took the opportunity to watch them in their sparring.

The younger ones bore sturdy looking wooden canes as they played at fighting, the elder ones fought with the flat of their blades or the reverse of their axes. The weapons were rough and made of poor metal, their technique was little more than brute force. Compared to his Elven knife it was as if they were attempting to beat each other into submission with rocks.

But they were effective enough. When Harry joined in with one of the eldest of the young warriors as Wambald looked on vigilantly he quickly accumulated a number of bruises from the many blows that got passed his pitiful defence. The old warrior took a keen interest and spent much of the time teaching Harry how to use his staff to block swords or axes correctly.

"Do not just hold the staff out to block," he said as he swung his own branch as a sword. "Any good sword or axe will cut through it with ease. You must sweep it away, not merely stop it."

Despite knowing that surely the advice was sound Harry found it hard to follow. While he was much healthier and stronger now after long weeks out from under the thumb of the Witch King he didn't have anywhere near the strength or stamina to fight with the heavy staff for more than a couple of minutes.

He grit his teeth to the pain and carried training on into the darkening night even as his body protested each block and stroke. He couldn't afford to be weak. He would not allow it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many names. Most of them are unimportant in the long run so don't bother making notes or anything. It's just one of those things where people get names if they speak (LotR). I'd planned for some action in this chapter but it kinda got larger and larger until I decided it should be pushed back to the next chapter. Sorry 'bou that. In my defence I'll say that the next chapter shouldn't take this long to appear.


	6. By Trials Beset

Harry awoke amid surprised shouts and rising screams. As his mind slowly worked to understand what was happening acrid smoke filled his lungs, his eyes stung as he tried to make out shapes in the gloom. The dancing heat of the flames played across his skin and all about him he could see the baleful orange light filtering through the billowing clouds. Hacking coughs ripped through his body as he tried desperately to find some clean air. In the stifling heat of the burning cart, lit only by the ever shifting glow of flickering flames, he sought his escape.

His roving hands brushed against the comforting wood of his staff and he grasped it gratefully, for what good it would do him. Little more than a week of practice using it as a weapon would avail him little in this particular battle. He could not fight flames or cloying smoke with a simple length of wood. He could barely best the green boys of the Rethlapa and without his magic he was as helpless in the face of fire as any person.

Against the chorus of shouts and screams outside there was another, closer. Harry closed his streaming eyes and hastily tore at his weather-beaten clothes. With one hand he held a strip of the cloth over his face as he coughed and spluttered in the dark. He tried to locate the scream, the voice that had uttered it was familiar though he couldn't identify it with any more clarity than that.

The voice had become muffled, but outside he could still hear the sounds of a desperate struggle.

Slowly, so slowly, he pulled himself along the floor of the cart until he saw a sliver of distant fire beyond the heavy curtain that usually covered the entrance to the wain. As soon as he saw his path to breathable air he surged forward as quickly as his half-suffocated body would propel him and he burst out into the night and gasped gratefully in the chill night air.

Deepest shadow battled blinding orange light throughout the camp. Many of the wains were burning bright against the darkness and great pillars of flame rose above them and strained to reach the stars above. Dark shadows ran here and there across the fires, only the gleaming metal of their weapons give them away as anything more.

There were knots of men locked in battle with each other all across the encampment. In the darkness Harry couldn't make out faces nor features and could not tell who was winning in the battle that had come upon them in the night.

While the wains burned the great camp-fires of the Rethlapa had mostly been scattered and the entire camp was awash with curling smoke and feather-light embers. Only one still burned and around it Harry could see a larger group fighting in a chaotic melee. For a moment he thought we caught the distant scarred visage of Wambald against the flames but in a flash the ever shifting fight hid the old warrior from view. Each of the fighters cast evil shadows across the rest of the camp, they danced and flickered across the grass, their dark weapons raised high.

Harry heard the muffled struggling again and this time it was so very close. He looked around as his eyes became more accustomed to the darkness and they soon settled upon a sight that caused anger to well up within him. In the shadow of his wagon a heavyset man with dark hair running in matted sheets down his back was grunting and struggling with a much smaller figure below him. As Harry watched the man pulled back a large, powerful looking fist and struck at the face of the person below him viciously. The welling anger burst forth and it took Harry only a second to react with force.

His staff struck the man with such force that Harry would not be surprised if the man's skull had been cracked like an egg. He went instantly limp and Harry quickly rolled his heavy body off the person below.

A girl looked up at him with wide eyes, her face and body bruised and bloodied. Her smock had been left in tatters and hiked up high about her thighs. Due to her battered appearance it took Harry a moment to recognise that it was Regana. The look of fear upon her face subsided just slightly when she realised who had dispatched her attacker.

"Harili!" she cried frantically, her voice thick and scratchy. "I try come. Warn you. Balutoth attack in night."

Harry crouched down beside her and placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder. He did not know what more he could do than offer the meagre comfort of his presence and even that he could not give for long. The battle still raged across the camp and Harry knew he could not stand aside and hope that it ended well for him.

He tried to soothe the girl as best he could while he tried to think of some course of action he could take that would not surely result in his death.

"Hush, it's OK," he said softly and squeezed her shoulder. "You did well, do you know where Thiadulf is?"

She shook her head emphatically. "His wagon was fire," she rushed out. "Not see him."

Harry looked back up and out towards the camp where many battles still took place. There was no way he could hope to much influence the result of the fight by merely charging in without regard. Perhaps his old self would have considered such a move but he was no longer the man he'd been during his battles with Voldemort.

He had learned a hard lesson and it was not one he would ever forget.

But still, he was who he was and these people had been good to him. Despite his long year in the dungeons of Carn Dûm he would not abandon good people to the fate that would surely await them. Yet there was little he could do.

His fingers trailed absently into a satchel upon his clothes and brushed against a forgotten gift. Uda's powder. He pulled the little pouch out and stared at it for a moment. Perhaps a little would be enough.

He turned back to Regana, a fire of determination burning in the pit of his stomach. "Stay hidden. I will do what I can."

Harry turned back towards the tumult, his staff grasped firmly in one hand. Then he stopped and looked back at the still vulnerable Regana hiding beneath the ruins of a burned out wagon.

"Wait, I want you to to take this." he pulled out the fine Elvish dagger he'd received from Daewen and handed it to the amazed girl. "I will want it back, but you keep yourself safe, OK?"

Then he turned back and strode out towards the single remaining fire. He walked past the bodies of Rethlapa and Balutoth both, their blood mingled together on the grass and glistened in the fire-light. He recognised a few of the faces that lay there and the determination writhed and twisted into a dark rage.

Out of the darkness a man lunged at him, his wicked notched blade cut through the night with a slight whistle. Hastily Harry brought up his staff to block the strike and as he did so he looked into the man's eyes. He saw a mad fear there, and pain and loathing. Cruelty and suffering were wrapped up together so tightly within his eyes that they became indistinguishable.

The man swung again and screamed incomprehensibly as he threw himself upon Harry. Harry quickly retreated as he did what little he could to stave off the frenzied blows that rained down upon him with blinding speed. This was exactly what he'd feared at the first moment. He was no match for any one of the attackers, how was he meant to make any meaningful difference in this fight?

He felt his arms becoming heavy as the blows continued and their pace did not slacken. All around the story was being replayed over and over. In each fight the Rethlapa were being slowly overcome by their attackers who seemed to never tire nor grieve. Smoke curled around the camp and stole away their breath even while it seemed to embolden their assailants.

Then the attacker chose to end it. He rushed forward and cast Harry to the ground with another cry. Harry's staff rolled away and he lay helpless upon the ground. He looked up at the figure that had defeated him, who had capitalised on his weakness. Black teeth occupied a twisted mouth, each one sharpened to a vicious point. Scars crisscrossed a cruel face and strong muscles moved beneath dark tattooed skin. There could be no victory here, only defeat or death.

Harry rebelled.

If that was to be the choice then he would choose death. As the man stalked forward Harry kicked out at his feet and sent him to the ground as Harry himself rolled back to his feet and picked up his dropped staff.

At that moment a breeze welled up, weak and sickly, but enough to drive away the dark smoke and despair. Harry felt new strength as he grasped his staff, this opponent was not beyond him. He could be hurt, and he could be bested. Harry wasted no time, before his enemy could regain his footing Harry's staff came down upon the back of his neck with a sickening crack. The man did not rise.

It was a small victory though. Around the camp the battle continued without abating and the Rethlapa still did not give up though by now it was clear that theirs was a losing battle.

All around they were being forced back or hemmed in. Small groups fought desperately around each of the wagons as they sought to protect their children and possessions but Harry could see that the battle was near lost.

At last he saw Thiadulf but the sight brought him no joy. The man was bruised and bloodied, one arm hanging useless at his side while he stood over the bloodied body of his eldest son. His deep voice sounded in wordless rage as he threw himself against the three men facing him.

But Harry's target was now near. The one great fire that had not been snuffed by the attackers stood just meters from where he stood. He had to hope that Uda was right.

His fist shot out and cast a handful of the her gift into the tall flames as Harry turned back to view the battle again.

An almighty gust of wind whipped past him as the flames grew to the height of the tallest trees and burned with such a bright green light for a second that the entire campsite was illuminated by the unsettling emerald fire. Behind the rush followed the breeze, now blowing fresh and true across the camp. Harry's voice echoed, unfamiliar, deep and menacing across the battle.

" _Daro!_ " he cried, remembering one of the words of Sindarin he'd been taught.

As his words rolled across the encampment they were followed a powerful and stifling silence as the fighters paused in their efforts for a moment. The faint popping and crackling of the fire behind Harry was all that could be heard.

Then the silence was broken by a dark resonant chuckle. Out of the ever-moving shadows strode a tall figure clad in ornate armour edged in gold and marred by blood. At his side was a long cruelly serrated sword that glistened dimly in the firelight.

Everything about him was different to those who had until moments before been fighting around him. His armour and weapons were well crafted, if cruel in form. He was much taller than anyone Harry had seen save Hagrid. Clad as he was in the armour he could not be much less than seven feet tall and he moved with the grace of a much smaller man.

He slowly closed the distance between them both, the slight clink and scrape of metal the only sound in the unnatural silence. Then he spoke and the foul words of the Black Speech of Mordor spilled across the blood soaked grass.

"Who are you who would command _me_?" he said, his voice both soft and unyielding, like velvet over a blade.

Harry said nothing. He shifted his feet and resisted the powerful urge to turn his eyes away from the figure in-front of him.

The man cocked his head as he looked Harry over. "Wizard, perhaps? Yet another of those meddlesome inconveniences?"

He stalked around Harry who shifted his position to keep the man in front of him.

"No, no Wizard are you. They have a power about them, even if it is misguided. You are so much less. You cannot even look me in the eye." He chuckled darkly. "Pathetic."

His words finally broke through to Harry who finally looked directly into the eyes of the man who stood before him. In the firelight they were almost completely concealed by shadow save for the slightest malevolent gleam in the depths.

"So you have a spine after-all," said the man silkily. "It is a pity you have little else. Your parlour tricks are of no use to me or my master."

His motion had placed Harry's back to the fire and now the man stalked forward again and Harry had nowhere to go. He could not retreat into the flames and any other escape would surely see him enter the reach of the serrated blade now held ready in the man's hand.

His only path out was through the Dark Servant. And so that was the route he chose.

He managed to surreptitiously throw the last of Uda's powder into the flames a his back and when the flames roared to the heavens again Harry was moving. He threw himself at the servant while the man was forced to look away from the brightly burning fire.

His gambit did little to avail him. As Harry closed the last of the distance the sword cut through the air between them with inhuman speed and Harry was lucky that the staff took the brunt of the attack. It snapped about the gleaming metal and half of the now broken length of wood fell to the ground. Harry cried out as the blade bit deeply in his side and he was thrown aside and to the grass.

"Now, you die," said the Dark Servant as he lifted his blade one final time. Behind him the flames roared hungrily and his silhouette cast a dark shadow over where Harry lay.

But Harry still was not ready to die. In a final act of desperation he thrust out his hand, his broken staff still held between its fingers. Suddenly he felt a sensation he'd thought lost to him; magic. It surged through his body and burst forth with a visible flash of light. The Dark Servant yelled in surprise as he was thrown bodily backwards through the air.

His yell soon turned to a scream as he landed in the centre of the still burning camp fire which bayed in hunger and brutal appreciation.

After long seconds the screams faded then ceased and a terrible silence fell over the camp as Harry lay still, utterly exhausted by his exertions. Shadows crept into the corners of his vision and the stars overhead swam out of focus. He blinked to try and clear his eyes. Darkness claimed him.

o-o

"Harili!" whispered a voice at the edges of his mind. Harry tried to comprehend its meaning but found that his thoughts eluded him.

"Harili!" said the voice, louder this time and more insistent. At the same moment fiery pain tore through him. He groaned and tried to shift the body through which he could now feel the rippling of a dull pain.

The movement brought a fresh wave of agony. But his eyes fluttered open.

The wide clear sky of the open plains greeted him but were soon replaced by the worried eyes of Regana as she babbled at him too fast to comprehend.

"Stop," he managed to croak as he brought a hand up to protect his eyes from the glare of the early morning sun.

"I… sorry. But you alive!" she said much slower. "How? You healing much faster."

Harry looked down at his ruined and blood-soaked garments, he was indeed almost healed. The sword had bitten deeply and had surely done a lot of serious internal damage. And yet here he was, alive on the grass with nothing more than a rapidly diminishing cut.

It was not wholly unexpected. His time in the dungeons of Carn Dûm had often been marked with agonising tests into his durability. They had never gone beyond removing a single toe to find that he was not capable of regrowing limbs but they had done almost everything else.

Burns healed in just weeks though the scars they left lasted much longer. Cuts and broken bones barely lasted days before they were almost completely healed. Even complete starvation could not end his suffering.

He brought his elbows up underneath his body and pushed himself slowly upright, grimacing at the pain that lanced through his body.

The battle was over but the Rethlapa had paid a heavy price. Many bodies were still scattered across the camp and the able bodied survivors were doing what they could to prepare them for the death rites of the plains tribes. Harry himself had been moved and all around him were men who were unlikely to see out the day.

Harry looked to Regana and asked the question he was dreading. Slowly, haltingly and in a mixture of tongues she told him the roll of the dead.

Uda had been unable to escape her wagon and had died in the flames while the battle raged outside. Thiadward had joined his father in attempting to fight off their assailants but had been killed when the two had been beset by a large group of Balutoth attackers intent on killing the tribe's leader.

But more had lived. Enna, Thiadulf's wife, had killed two attackers herself while protecting their youngest son. Wambald had also survived, though he had collected some new scars in the process. Regana had of course also managed to survive after Harry had left her alone.

When at last she had named everyone who was dead she returned Daewen's knife to Harry. Blood encrusted the blade.

"Are you—" he began but she quickly cut him off.

"Thiadulf is survive, but very injured," she said forcefully. "He say he want see you."

Harry's mouth clicked shut and he nodded his head. "Then I will go to him," he said without hesitation. "Can you help me up?"

With her help he was able to pull himself painfully upright. When he made it to his feet he swayed for a moment as dizziness took ahold of him. He leaned heavily on the younger girl as he regained his balance and tried to push the burning ache in his abdomen to the back of his mind.

They made their agonizingly slow way across the camp and Harry noticed a great number of undamaged wains that hadn't been in their group the day before. Each was decorated very differently to the wagons of the Rethlapa, They were all covered in images of victorious and bloody battles, a number even had shrunken heads adorned on spikes.

Many of the surviving children were picking through the ruins of the burned wagons for anything that could be salvaged, when they found something they would take them to one of the new wains which it was obvious had been claimed by the victors. Harry could see no sign of any of the surviving Balutoth.

Eventually Harry reached the largest of the new wagons. It was an impressive construction. It ran on eight huge and broad steel wheels and was at least twice the size of the Rethlapa wagons. The frame was formed out of a dark metal and Harry was amazed it could ever move. It would surely take more horses than they'd had before the battle.

The broad awning sheltered a number of people within. Among them was both Enna and Wambald who were leaning down over the battered tribe leader.

"Ahhhho! Harili, you live!" Thiadulf sputtered when he laid eyes on Harry. His formerly booming voice had been reduced to a shadow of its former self, it now sounded weak, cracked and painful.

Much like his voice, the formerly formidable body of Thiadulf was a pale reflection of what it had been just the day before. He looked pale and drawn, it was as if he had shrunk in on himself and his face was covered in bruises and cuts.

"Did I not say a Wizard was a great blessing?" the stricken man whispered. "Without you men would be dead, and women would be taken."

Harry shook his head slowly, he had blacked out before the battle had been near its conclusion. "I am sorry Thiadulf, I tried to do more."

Thiadulf tried to speak again but Enna placed a quelling hand on his shoulder and gave Wambald a meaningful look.

"Harili, you saved the tribe," the old warrior said. "Once the Easterling was felled by you the rest threw down their weapons at our feet."

"But he almost killed me," Harry protested. "I blacked out, any one of them could have killed me then."

Wambald shook his head. "You defeated the scourge of the wastes, the greatest leader of the Balutoth tribes. Long has he been preying upon the weaker tribes, with him gone they are lost."

Thiadulf erupted in hacking coughs and a slight spray of blood covered the sheets that were spread across his chest.

Harry turned to Regana was who had been watching the scene stoically. "Regana, you try find my bag?" he asked haltingly in the language of the Rethlapa. "If it not burned, might help Thiadulf."

Her eyes went wide and she nodded hastily before ducking out of the wain without a backwards glance.

"You can help?" asked Enna cautiously, her eyes sparked with the beginnings of hope.

"Maybe," allowed Harry, not wishing to get the woman's hopes up. She had already lost a son, she did not deserve to lose a husband. "His hurts bad, but might help."

It took just a minute for Regana to return, breathless and excited with Harry's singed bag in her hands. The Elvish material had been blackened by the smoke and in places scorched by the fire but it had not burned, its precious contents had been kept mostly safe.

Harry took it from the girl's grasp and quickly searched through it for his objective. There, the salve he'd made up for the woman in the ruined village. There was not much left but it might just be enough. He remembered that it had been much more effective than he'd thought it should be, he hoped it was enough.

He handed it across to Enna. "Use this. Spread on his wounds," he said urgently. "Thinly. That is all I have."

She nodded in understanding and she and Wambald pulled the heavy sheets off the Rethlapa chieftain, finally displaying the true extent of his injuries. His skin was black and blue all over, with only dried blood to show that it was or had once been a living body. He had deep slashes across his chest and a deep chunk out of his shoulder. Harry was amazed that the man had endured so long as he had, it was no small testament to his strength.

Harry was unsure when he looked at the true extent of the injuries that his salve would be able to save the man. Even as he watched, though, the mixture went to work. The cuts healed almost instantly and even the larger gouges rapidly regrew the missing flesh and closed up in minutes. Enna carefully applied the salve until it was all used and though there were still a number of more minor injuries and bruises left once they were finished it was obvious that the man would now survive.

He even stood up and managed to limp over to Harry after just a half hour of recovery.

"Haaha!" he cried, his voice almost returned to its old fullness. "And you doubted the luck of a Wizard! Me and my people will be forever in your debt. A home you will have here for as long as you wish it."

He wrapped Harry in a tight and bristly hug, his huge strong arms nearly driving the air from Harry's lungs and drawing a gasp of pain as his own still healing wounds protested. Thiadulf released him instantly and looked down upon him with a worried expression.

"Now you are the more hurt, yes?" he said with amusement, he released a booming laugh. "Perhaps you should take my place now, while you recover."

"No, thats—" Harry tried to protest as he was bodily hauled over to the place where Thiadulf had been laying.

"No," said Enna with an air of finality. "It is too dirty, We must clean it first."

Thiadulf quickly realised that she was right and halted in his efforts. "Then come, we will go and walk among our people. There will be much to do."

This time Harry did not resist and both men slowly hobbled out of the wagon, each leaning heavily upon the other for support.

Many of the men, women and children of the Rethlapa had been seriously injured in the attack. Some by sword or axe, others by fire. Harry could not do for them all what he'd done for Thiadulf and it grated upon him. The miraculous herb, the athelas, had all been used in his first attempt at a healing salve, the healing salve that had been exhausted in saving Thiadulf.

Nonetheless, Harry worked tirelessly to do what he could for those who were injured. His collection of ingredients was no undamaged by the fire, many of the plants had cooked in the heat of the fire, even if they were protected from the flames by the Elvish sack. But he was able to do some little good.

He was able to make a burn salve that did little to heal, but greatly reduced the pain of the burns. He also did what he could to stop infection but with the relatively small selection of ingredients available to him his every attempt to produce a healing draught was met with failure.

As he worked Harry soon realised that there really was no sign of the Balutoth among the survivors. Much later, once his meagre store of potions ingredients had been exhausted, Harry went to seek out Thiadulf.

"What happened to the others?" he asked when he finally found the powerful man, watching a young brother and sister pick through the remains of their belongings. "The… Balutoth?"

"Yes! The Bad Teeth, you would say? They were cast out onto the plains," said Thiadulf with a grim cast to his face, "we shall see which has the sharper _teeth_."

Harry remembered Wambald telling him about the bitiwind, the wind with teeth that scoured the plains in the winter months. Anyone left without shelter upon the plains would not live a long life.

"The women and children too?" Harry asked in shock.

Thiadulf shook his head. "No, they had none. It was a warband only, they keep their slaves and children in the south or east. Only a few women with them, all slaves captured from other tribes."

"What happened to them?" Harry had not seen any evidence of them.

"I do not know. But the Balutoth are not kind. They might have been amongst those you were trying to help," explained the chief. "Perhaps in one of the other wains."

There was a pause as they both watched the two siblings argue over a surviving stuffed toy.

"I'm sorry about Thiadward," said Harry awkwardly. I don't—"

"He fought well," said Thiadulf proudly, his voice did not tremble. "Without him I would be dead, beyond even your power. His mother too. He died well, he will be treated with high honour among my ancestors, surely his range will be great and his grass evergreen"

And that seemed to be all that needed to be said. Silence returned and the children were now chasing each-other about through the ruined ashes of their once home as they fought over one of their few remaining possessions. A laugh escaped from the girl as she finally caught her brother and managed to wrest the toy from him.

Life would go on.

o-o

"You will ever have a home here, Harili," said Thiadulf heavily. "We said we would bring you to the White Wizard and we have, but much more is owed now, much more than we have paid these last weeks. You need not leave."

Both men stood upon a hill as the wains moved slowly across the landscape behind them. Before them was a great mountain range and a great forest flowed from the lower slopes. To the south was a city of the Easterlings, nestled safely between two jutting elbows of rock.

The forest was called the Wildholt by Thiadulf's people and the city was called Algan-ind in the tongue of the men who lived there.

Harry bowed his head in thanks. "You have done more for me than I could expect Thiadulf of the Rethlapa. But I already have a home. Much as I have enjoyed sharing yours these past weeks I cannot forget that."

It had been two weeks since the attack that had brought the group to the very edge of destruction and since then Harry had been treated with as much respect as Thiadulf himself. Their travel had been slow going indeed after the attack as many of the wounded were unable to help with normal tasks in the tribe. Normality was slowly returning though, somehow word had passed across the plains faster than Harry would have thought possible. Just two days ago a small group had come before Thiadulf and asked to join with his people.

Protection they said, for who would dare attack the one group that had stood against the scourge of the wastes and won? The politics of the plains, if such they could be called, were brutal and fluid. For a number of years the Balutoth had been gaining in power all across the south and east, now they had lost their leader and suffered a crushing blow. Weakness seldom went unanswered upon the eastern plains.

Harry himself had spent much of his time attempting to recapture that moment when his magic had finally flowed free. He had waved his broken staff until he could no longer hold it up, he had shouted spells in rising fury and frustration until his voice had gone hoarse.

He had felt nothing more than the slightest stirring in the pit of his belly, and that could have been explained by his nervousness and frustration.

The only light spot for Harry had been the reaction of the children, all of whom had found small sticks of their own which they'd taken to wielding. Soon it had descended into a game as such things often did with children. Harry had been unable to hold onto his frustration when he'd seen the clan children running around and shouting _Wingardium Leviosa_ at each-other.

But now, finally, they had reached the point where their paths would part.

The man grumbled his acceptance. "Then you go with my blessing. In the deep wood, in the shadow of the tallest mountain, Raedmunt, you will find the White Wizard. Or he will find you."

"Thank you, I have said my goodbyes to everyone else," said Harry as he turned to look at the Raedmunt which stood tall upon the horizon.

"Then it is time for you to go," said Thiadulf gravely, his dark eyes mournful. "Beware the pale men of the woods, Harili. I do not think even they would harm a Wizard, but they are capricious. We tell stories of their deeds around our camp-fires some nights to make the children behave themselves."

Harry nodded in understanding. He would keep a weather eye out for others when he stepped into the forest. Even from here it it felt watchful, though less hostile than the great wood he'd passed by before meeting with the Rethlapa.

The city was the more attractive proposition, even if it did not have a Wizard within its walls. The Rethlapa occasionally traded with the city, it was one of the few cities of the Easterlings that did not close its gates to the plains folk. But it had no cult of magic and so Harry was doubtful of the information it could provide. Of the two the White Wizard seemed the better option.

"Would that I could send Liudulf with you on your journey," said Thiadulf, once again breaking the reluctant silence. "He looks to you now more than me I think." He chuckled.

"He will be a good warrior, you need every one of those you can get my friend," said Harry with a sad smile. "He has been a great help to me since the attack, but your need is greater now I think."

Thiadulf didn't argue and they both descended into silence once more.

Finally, Harry sighed and without another word strode out once more in search of the home he'd lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the next language. The Easterling cities use another language again from the plains people. This one will be based primarily on Dwarvish (kinda like Adunaic but... not Adunaic).


	7. Yet By Starlight Sustained

" _Wingardium Leviosa!_ " Harry's cry echoed through the quiet woods and disturbed birds from their high perches among the whispering branches.

The fallen and yellowed leaf, which he had been trying to lift into the air with magic, lay steadfast upon the ground before him. It was stirred only slightly by the faint breeze which filtered weakly through the trees of the wood in which he now walked.

He prodded the clearly useless length of wood in his hands at his target viciously, his anger bubbling over at last, after nearly two days of failed experiments. "Fly, damn you!"

Still it sat motionless and resolute. Harry flung the useless stick to the ground, yet another in a long line of failed attempts. Ever since he had entered the wood he had been collecting a stick or twig from every tree he passed and each one he tested for magic.

Not a single one allowed him to perform even the meanest beginnings of a spell. They did not even feel as comfortable in his hand as the pine staff that he still carried with him, though it was now broken and useless.

It seemed hopeless. It was like his magic was locked behind a heavy door and without a proper wand he did not have the key. He'd tried for hours to recall the sensation he'd felt when he'd performed magic during the attack weeks earlier but it proved distressingly hard to quantify or repeat. He felt like he was as close to performing real magic now, after two days in the woods, as he'd been upon his release from the iron grip of Angmar.

That was to say, not close at all.

And yet he knew it was not beyond him, that was what was so utterly infuriating. He had performed magic, he had mixed a potion, he was a wizard still, of that there could be no doubt. But he was a wizard without a wand, and that was no enviable circumstance.

He wished, not for the first time, that he'd made a greater effort during his years at Hogwarts. Perhaps, his doubts whispered, if he'd just done a little more work he would have known enough to make some progress here, so far from any chance of rescue.

But he had not, and so he had no choice but to strive on the back of what he _did_ know.

What he knew now was that it was clear that a wand without a core was no wand at all. More than that though, wandcrafting was an ancient art that had been passed down through a small number of families. Even if by some providence he found something that might serve as a core for his wand he had little knowledge of how a wand was created or crafted. All he knew was that a wand was much, much more than the sum of its parts. He doubted strongly that he would easily be able to replicate the work of a master of the art like Ollivander.

He could only hope that one of the Wizards in the world would be able to help him. Daewen had said that they did not use wands here but perhaps a true Wizard's staff would be enough to grant Harry the use of his magic back.

In dark moments he reflected that it would almost be easier if he'd lost his magic completely, at least then the damnable hope would not prop him up only to be cast down again and again by the cruel reality of his situation.

If he had been in the frame of mind to appreciate it he would have been in awe of the forest through which he now walked. It was a watercolour in motion, bright colours and sweeping shapes. Tall trees, much taller and straighter of trunk and limb than any he'd ever known stretched for miles beyond miles. Some had pale silver bark, while others had brown, or red, some were even the pale gold of the rising sun over distant waters. The canopy was awash in more colours than even the most beautiful painting and with each gust of wind across the boughs a brilliant shower descended to the ground below, like embers of the sun.

Harry had not paid the sheer beauty more than a cursory glance. Only once in his time in the woods had he been distracted from his magical efforts and that had been in the late hours before he had gone to his fitful sleep. As he lay upon the ground, wrapped in a rough but warm enough blanket gifted to him by Regana before his departure he'd looked up into the thinning canopy and done nothing more than stare until sleep had finally taken him.

Among the then dark leaves the stars had shone with a purity and grace that seemed almost out of place. Surely these were the same stars as could be seen anywhere else and yet here the effect was so much different. As they wheeled slowly across the sky pale lances of light descended through the leafy openings and danced over the ground where the bright colours of the fallen leaves reflected all around.

It almost made him forget about his frustration. He'd dreamed that night of the endless and ageless night sky and had awoken the next morning more refreshed than he'd known in a long time.

That restful night was now long forgotten. He kicked out at the ground and swept a cloud of brightly coloured leaves into the air, to his stormy mind the beautiful effect was distinctly unsatisfactory. He stalked onwards and as he passed close to the next tree he lashed out again and struck it with his foot.

"Aaargh! God _damn_ it!" he cried as the soft slipper-like shoes he was wearing failed to protect him from the blow. He hopped on his good foot for a moment before finally punching the tree as hard as he could.

He hissed in pain as his knuckle met the unyielding wood with bruising force. Finally he closed his eyes and rested his forehead gently upon the tree. He tried to focus on a mental image of the stars he'd seen the night before. Slowly, so slowly, the anger and frustration ebbed away, each long breath taking with it just a little of the pain that he'd become so adept at ignoring.

"Nalwai nan?"

A musical but stern voice came from mere feet away and Harry's eyes shot open in surprise. Somehow in the bare minute he'd been standing silently trying to calm himself he'd been surrounded by a group of people who looked very much like Elves.

Each was fair, as was always the way with their people. Men and women both were slim and fair of face with long hair that reached at least beyond their shoulders but in a few cases settled close to the smalls of their backs. Most had rich brown hair that seemed almost red among the fallen leaves of the wood. A few, including the one who had spoken, had silvery hair that shimmered in a way that reminded Harry a little of his old invisibility cloak.

Their clothing was similarly elegant though not as intricately adorned as he remembered Daewen's had been. There was also very little metal in evidence across the entire group he could see only silver adornments and steel blades, they had none of the incredibly fine mail and plate of the Elves Harry had met before. Instead they wore long tunics in earthy colours and over each was worn fine leather body armour, inscribed with hair-breadth silver filigree patterns.

Each also held in their hands a bow and in every bow an arrow was nocked.

"Na utilwai nauriva? asked the silver haired one whom Harry decided must be the leader. His voice was strong and challenging and Harry could see that the Elf was rapidly running out of patience.

He cleared his throat. "Do you speak Westron? Getheode?" From what little he knew of Daewen it seemed possible that they might speak Westron, even here, so far from the lands upon the western sea. If not then surely they would know Getheode, the language of the plains folk.

"Why have you come into our woodlands, trespasser?" the leader asked in heavily accented Getheode. Unlike Daewen and the Elves of Rivendell, who spoke even the language of Men with the grace of poets, it was obvious that he was not often called upon the speak anything outside of his own tongue.

The truth was surely his Harry's best path. "I was told that the White Wizard lives in the shadow of Raedmunt, I was travelling to receive his counsel."

There was a very slight slackening of bowstrings around him, it seemed the Wizard was known to them. The leading Elf, however, did not relax.

"What counsel do you seek of Kurumir?" He near barked the words. "From whence have you travelled?"

"I came from Rivendell, far to the West," he said quickly. He doubted that telling them he'd come from Angmar would aid him in this situation. They would either be ignorant of it, or they would have heard the reputation even here. Neither would serve to endear him to them.

"Rivendell is not known to us," said the Elf suspiciously, the bow still held taught. "Never have I heard Kurumir speak of such a place."

"Imladris, then?" said Harry after a long nervous moment of riffling through his memories.

The leader's lips thinned dangerously.

"I have heard of _Imladris_ from Kurumir," he bit out. "What reason do the _Avarthi_ have to send an envoy into our lands?"

A susurration went through the assembled Elves at the mention of Avarthi. Harry didn't know what it meant but from the context the meaning was clear; it was what these Elves called the Elves of Rivendell.

"No reason," said Harry. He spoke quickly to quell their suspicion. "I left them of my own choice, I am here because _I_ wish to learn from Kurumir."

There was a long pregnant pause between the two until, at last, the final bow was lowered and Harry let out a relieved sigh.

"You will be taken before Aminilyё," the Elf said at last. "None may pass through these lands without her leave, and you do not have it."

"I meant no insult," said Harry, trying to repair whatever damage he'd done in his ignorance. "I was not told that these woods were yours alone."

"Then you were advised poorly, Alameri" said the Elf, his tone clipped with impatience. "Come, I have no wish for you to remain in our woods longer than you must."

With that the Elf turned away, and gestured to one of the other Elves, "Tidiryes renen, Hedunika."

The Elf in question inclined his head very slightly before responding, "Ek nim caté sa." He then slowed and took up position to the side and just behind Harry. It was fairly clear just what the command had been.

Then, without a further backwards glance the lead Elf led the group off, clearly expecting Harry to follow. Around him the other Elves began to move off though Harry noticed that each of them eyed him carefully before following their leader. Harry decided that for the time being it would be best not to antagonise his hosts any further. He rubbed his still stinging hand absent-mindedly and fell into step behind the group of Elves.

His assigned guard fell into step just behind and to the side of him and Harry could feel the watchful eyes of the Elf upon him.

The group of Elves kept a punishing pace. Harry soon found his legs becoming steadily heavier as he strove to keep up with their deceptively quick stride. He was reminded again of his time with Daewen and the inhuman grace with which she moved. While Harry was much recovered now compared to the time when he'd last travelled aside an Elf these Elves were much less inclined to treat him kindly.

Where the Elves walked with ease and grace Harry found the bushes and undergrowth grasped and clawed at him. Their pace did not let up though, even as Harry stumbled and struggled. They were nigh silent, save for a few quietly whispered words that passed between them.

The only sound of the group's passing was Harry's heavy breathing and the sound of his ongoing battle with the plants of the forest. Every now and then he'd catch the barest whisper of an argument being held between the Elves nearby but he could never make out the words, even if he could he certainly wouldn't recognise the language.

He tried on multiple occasions to strike up some kind of conversation with his escorts, or his assigned guard, but each time he was ignored completely. Even attempts to introduce himself by name were met with stony silence and piercing glares. On the few occasions they saw fit to address him, most often to chastise him for his slow pace, he was called only 'Alameri', a word he did not understand.

Finally, as the sun at long last set below the western horizon, the pace slowed just a little. Harry was grateful for the long days marching among the Rethlapa, for surely without that exercise he would not have been able to sustain the punishing march he'd endured throughout that entire day without rest.

"We do not labor under the stars," explained the silver haired Elf when he came back to Where Harry was leaning appreciatively against a tree with fine, paper-thin bark. "You will remain here until dawn. You will be taken before Aminilyё tomorrow."

Harry did not have it in him to do much more than bow his head in acceptance, simply thankful that he'd get some small measure of rest. He would also, hopefully, be allowed to eat. On their day-long march he had scarcely been allowed a few bites of his rations and he could feel the strength drained out of his body.

It was when the other Elves left that Harry realised where it was they were going. Hanging above them in the thinning canopy was a collection of what Harry could only call tents. That word was singularly insufficient to the purpose though. Calling what hung from the canopy above 'tents' was akin to calling Angmar grim; at its most basic level it was true, but it could not hope to bring a listener to a full comprehension of the reality.

Strands of rope so thin as to be almost invisible in the gloom spanned between the trees like a great web and from those strands were suspended more than half a dozen cloth structures of varying sizes, designs and colours. They were made out of a pale and shimmering fabric that rippled constantly in the mere breaths of wind that filtered through the trees. Elves moved easily among the structures across the impossibly thin support ropes, their weight barely seeming affect the spindly web at all.

One of the structures was the size of a small house and from within could be heard the sounds of cheerful revelry. A hundred gossamer thin strands of silver radiated out in a starburst into the nearby forest and the whole structure swayed alongside the trees that held it up.

Ever moving and never still it was as if the wood itself had grown out into the impossible shape simply to give home to the Elves that lived there. When the light of the stars above was reflected in the liquid surface it it alike the clearest limpid pools in a cave.

"Wow," Harry breathed quietly. In the entire year he'd spent in this world and prison he'd never truly appreciated just how alien another world could be. Where the dark iron and stone of Angmar was unfamiliar, it was not altogether strange to one who had spent the best years of his life in Hogwarts Castle. There was, perhaps, an echo there of what could have been had Voldemort been successful.

Not so here, there was nothing from his world that he could draw upon to place the home of these Elves in context. It was at once beautiful, elegant and utterly bizarre.

Then, as he gazed at the suspended settlement to sky darkened enough that the stars shone down upon him as they had the night before. As the threads, structures and trees all captured and reflected the pure starlight in a million different ways Harry understood completely why the Elves were so protective of their forest.

He sat with his back against the hardwood of one of the trees and tilted his head up the sky and simply let the sensation of wonder and contentment fill him, for the first time in many months he did not fight it.

"Do you Men not require sleep, Alameri?"

Harry was broken from his reverie by the soft words the Elves assigned to watch over him in the night. He was stood not five feet from where Harry sat and in the beautiful twilight of the wood only the fractured starlight glinting upon his dark hair and pale eyes betrayed any features within his dark silhouette.

"How can I sleep when it means I'd be missing _that_?" Harry said in little more than a reverent whisper. He shook his head. "It seems such a waste."

His words seemed to have an effect upon the Elf who stepped closer and lowered himself to his haunches.

"Few enough Men take the time to watch the stars, in these dark days," he said, his mouth downturned in a frown. "Too often they are distracted by the dark clouds that blow ever from East to West. Even on a clear night such as this most are too blinded by their own brief lives to appreciate the ageless grace of the stars."

Harry couldn't help but snort as a little ill-humour bled through the quiet calm. "There is little enough brightness in my life in recent months, certainly nothing bright enough to blind."

"It seems that light ever dwindles while darkness is fated always to grow," said the Elf understandingly. "But see! Though night now falls there is beauty and purity even there that cannot be destroyed, only hidden briefly by shifting clouds. And in time a new dawn will come and darkness will again retreat beyond the horizon. Ever has it been so."

"You seem so sure." Harry shook his head ruefully. "I am not."

"I have not the wisdom to aid you. But know, Harry, that no evil will come to you here. Sleep, and as you do know that the stars will keep the shadows from your mind. No shadow of the enemy will pass here while the Elves yet remain and the stars yet shine." For the first time since he had parted with Daewen months ago Harry heard sympathy in the tone of the Elf.

o-o

Harry was nudged awake the next morning and groaned his tired discomfort into the loamy soil. His back and neck ached and it felt like all the muscles of his body had seized up over the night. The only small mercy was that one of the watchers had seen fit to cover him in a thin but soft Elvish blanket to ward away the cold late autumn nights. Though it was much thinner than the heavy Rethlapa blanket it was also warmer by far.

"The time for sleeping is passed, Alameri," said the unwelcome voice of the blond Elf from the previous day. "You will stand."

Harry bit back the rejoinder that rose up in his throat at the treatment. He knew that ill-considered words would do him no favours here. Instead, he picked himself off the ground with no small amount of effort and discomfort as muscle and bone protested their treatment over the last cold night.

The Elf looked over Harry as he stood up. The grey eyes flickered over his scarred appearance and dirtied garments he wore and made no effort to hide their disapproval. Among the Rethlapa he had almost been able to forget the physical hurts dealt to him at the black hands of the Witch King, but among the Elves found that their lingering eyes would ever remind him of just what he'd once been and what he'd become. Harry could not help but wonder if Elves were even capable of becoming muddied or befouled.

"You cannot travel into the trees, and so Enelyё Aminilyё must come instead to you." It was clear that he did not approve of that circumstance. "Know that she does you a greater honour by her presence than any mere Man should ever hope to deserve."

Harry said nothing, instead he stood to his full height and grimaced as he tried to ignore the cracking of joints. He noticed that all around were far more Elves than there had been the night before. Where before there had been shy of a dozen now more than fifty sets of slate-grey eyes looked on in suspicion. More than that though was the feeling of watchfulness, of grey shapes at the edge of his sight, unseen and unheard; but not unseeing or unhearing. Something grated upon his nerves, frayed and unsure.

Flanked by dark-haired Elf maids who must have been considered fair even among the Elves was an Elven Lady of eye-catching beauty and grace. Her hair was spun silver and rippled softly in the morning sunlight, like captured starlight. Her eyes, edged with the beginnings of crow's-feet, were so pale as to almost shine with an inner light and her skin was fresh-fallen snow.

"I am Enelyё," she said in an inhumanly resonant voice. If a normal human voice could be a fine instrument then Enelyё's was like a mournful orchestra. "You are the one whom I felt enter my woods."

"I am sor—" Harry began before she waved him off, even that small gesture was smooth and graceful.

"Do not fret, young one," she said as her eyes shone with understanding. "I can see the shadow of pain hanging about you yet even now it cannot rule you, you shall be welcome here, among my people."

And just like that, the suspicion vanished from the faces of all those who watched. The blond haired Elf who had just yesterday treated Harry with contempt now looked on with acceptance. Such was the power of the Elven Lady before him. Moments later the group of Elves who had congregated dispersed back into the woods and tents overhead. The watchfulness faded.

"I can hear in your words that you have travelled far indeed and I can see in your bearing that the journey was no easy one," said Enelyё. "Come, take succor with me and tell me of your quest."

She led Harry and her small retinue through the autumnal woods. The leaves upon the ground sighed at her passing and the branches overhead dipped as she passed them by. Soon they came upon a small brook which bubbled between the trees. By the brook was a stone, flat-topped and polished to a marble finish by usage and time. Two smaller stones sat beside it, Enelyё seated herself at one.

She motioned to Harry to take the other, "My companions will grant us privacy," she said when Harry glanced towards the Elf maids that had followed them. "You need not fret yourself over them."

"It is said that you come to us in your search for Kurumir, the one you call the White Wizard," she said after Harry joined her at the low and rough table. It seemed an odd combination, for she was more queenly than any Harry had ever known yet now she sat at nothing more than an unadorned stone.

One of the Elf maids returned to them carrying with her a small assortment of unrecognisable foods which she placed upon the stone between Harry and Enelyё.

Harry inclined his head, "I am lost, my Lady, and I do not know how to return home. It is my hope that he might show me the path."

Her eyes seemed to look through him and it seemed for a moment as if she was not listening but then she spoke, "I hope he can aid you, young wanderer. Yet know that none can ever truly return to a home that has been left. The Elves, the Avarthi of Rivendell most of all, know the truth of that. Even should the body be returned the spirit can never follow."

"I know that this, what I have experienced and seen has changed me," said Harry, he had to accept that harsh truth at least. "But what else can I do? There is nothing for me here but pain and the long memory of it."

"Would that you have never left," said Enelyё a sad tilt to her melodious voice. "Yet I see in your eyes that it was not your choice to leave. I cannot offer to you the words you would seek to hear but perhaps Kurumir, or Morinehtar would be of more help. Hear me though, Harry Úmarё, they will send you only further from home as no road can lead you to the past."

She reached down and offered Harry an unusual savoury cake-like food form the selection between them.

"Such words are not those you wish to hear," she said when Harry accepted the food in silence. "I would not have you pass on from here as you hold such false hope in your heart. The Wizards and their hidden masters who once walked these lands shrouded by shadow and mistrust would fill you with that hope to ward you from darkness."

Harry nibbled on the food she'd offered him, despite the cynicism of her words it softened the blow. It had little of the warmth and fullness of the waybread that he'd been given by the Elves of Rivendell but it worked to ease his hunger.

"I am not ready to give up," he said firmly, his determination sprouting anew as his hunger was banished. "Where would I find Kurumir?"

The ethereal Elven lady before him smiled sadly. "Was it always so among Men," she said as she shook her head gracefully. "Ever scrabbling for all their days, never savouring the short time they have. But I will help you, for my heart senses in you something more than my mind may perceive.

"Kurumir is to the north, more than a week's travel for one without Elven swiftness. You would not find him easily alone, young Úmarё, for he resides for now within the deep halls of the Dwarves."

"I have come this far," said Harry firmly, rebuffing her suggestion. "As you said, I cannot turn back and so onwards is my only path."

She was silent for a few seconds and Harry feared he might have given her insult, finally she smiled at him, a simple gesture that was stunning in its beauty. "Then I would offer you one last piece of advice, should you choose to hear it."

Though it seemed she had not taken offense to his words Harry did not wish to try her patience and immediately accepted to hear her words.

She stood up slowly, a long, single fluid motion alike to a ballet dancer. "Wait among our people for two days and two nights and you will have companionship on your journey to Kurumir. Two travellers, alike in nature to the one you seek, will arrive hence on that day and then they will go on. Morinehtar is alike to Kurumir in many ways, rash and with little appreciation of the ways of our people, but Rómestámo may have words of wisdom that you would choose to hear."

"Alike in—" Harry began before noticing that Enelyё was already departing their small glade. "Wait, do you mean they're wizards too?"

She looked back at him and thought for a moment. "So they claim," she said at last. "But I have met their ilk before and I do not find much truth in their words, much though they like the sound of them. They are not servants of the Enemy, that much is sure. But there will be time for such question later. You are weary and hungered. I shall leave you to break your fast in peace, away from my doom-laden words."

o-o

Two days was not much time, not when compared to the weeks with the Rethlapa or the year in the dungeons of Carn Dûm, and yet Harry chafed every waking minute for his wait to end. He was so close to the answers he'd been seeking for so long.

Wizards, there were wizards coming to Celfumar, the Elvish settlement that was at the centre of all the wandering groups that moved always to and fro across the Wildholt, or Covánan as the Elves called it.

After he had received Enelyё's blessing he had been welcomed with open arms by the Elves of the woods. They had even gone so far as to erect one of their impossible gossamer tents near enough to the ground that he could enter and leave without aid. When he reminded them that he would only be among them for two nights they had waved his concerns off easily.

Yet he found again that the effortless perfection of the Elves reminded him of his own weakness and ruination. Among the Rathlapa, a hardy folk forged by the cold, the wind and the rain of the great plains, he had almost felt unremarkable. Beside old Úda his broken teeth had not been worthy of note and when compared to Wambald even Harry's now fading scars were not so terrible as they had first seemed.

But now he was again comparing himself to Elves. Elves that shone like a precious metal while his was still occasionally patchy and dull. Elves with flawless visage and impossible grace while his scarred body fumbled from place to place. Elves with perfect teeth so white that they could blind while Harry could still hardly bare to see his own reflection.

Unlike with Daewen, though, the pain was more distant now. The anger and frustration didn't come, instead there was a resolve. He would repair himself, body and mind, and he would not be ashamed.

Their hospitality in the first night served to drive any such dark thoughts even further afield. They had feasted upon many breads, meats and wines on the first night. Elf maids had played any number of stringed instruments, and accompanying each another Elf would sing a song of sadness or triumph, happiness or regret and with each song Harry could not help but be moved, even though he knew not the words they spoke.

As the evening ran into night and the endless field of stars shone down upon them a single Elf maid stepped before everyone and, alone and without accompaniment, began to sing. One Elf, the one that had spoken to him on his first night, named Hedunika, tried to translate for him.

His eyes were mournful as he explained the story of which she sang, one that moved many of the Elves to tears. "It is the story of the Awakening of our kin at the shores of the great waters that once lapped at the base of the Covánan. At first it was bright and full of wonder, the joy of birth and discovery as stars shone brightly overhead in days before the light came to them from the West and long before the sun ever rose in the sky.

"Three kin of Elves there were and ours was the largest. Yet shadows grew in the woods in which our Mother and Father awoke and soon those shadows grey and Elvenkin disappeared into the cold and the dark, never to be seen again. In those days, the first days of our race, each wife was gifted a husband and each husband a wife, a companion to see out all the turns of the stars. Yet the shadows sundered many of those bonds."

The music grew mournful but was at once strong too, resolute. "Imin of the Minyar was the first to be lost, and Tatiё of the Tatyar but our own kin, the Nelyar in the ancient days, lived among the trees and the shadows could not reach us in our homes of spun starlight.

"Then came Arometh, upon his great steed, he bore a light in his countenance and by his mere presence the shadows shied and fled. After he came the earth shook and weeped. The water of Cuiviénen were drained and mountains were uprooted. Then he asked the kin to abandon their homes for he said that darkness had crept into the east and could never be wholly stamped out."

But memory of the waters was still young among our people and many did not wish to go. Of the Minyar and the Tatyar nearly all chose to follow to the bright land they said resided across the far sea. Even the Nelyar were sundered in two. Elwë, son of Enel and Enelyë and the greatest of our kin in any age, went with them on a great journey into the West, and were forever lost to us beyond the unknowable sea."

"The days then were filled with fear and loss for darkness crept back as Arometh had said it would. Our numbers waned and life was filled with strife and pain. Enel, the leader of our people was slain in battle with a horned beast of fire and wrath."

He quieted as the Elf maiden's song became a slow and mournful lament. "She sings now of the long waning years before the rise of the sun and the arrival of Man, I do not know the words in your tongue to express the depths of sorrow found here for my people. Perhaps there are none, for your lives are not long enough to know such."

And so Harry did not question further and instead merely listened to the emotion behind the words, emotion so transparent that no words were needed. Anguish and long despair through a long and torturous night. The song seemed to have no end and was forever finding new pits of depression into which to plunge and so Harry did what he could to excuse himself.

It was just as well that he did, for he found out later that the song was nothing less than the entire history of their people and was so woven with tragedy and sorrow that no Elf could listen to it without weeping.

When the next morning came Harry awoke in the early hours of darkness before dawn and he was visited by one of the Elf maid companions to Enelyё.

"Vinrána," she said in her own tongue. A name some of the Elves had taken to calling Harry. It meant young wanderer in the Kwendi tongue. "Aminilyё sends word that your companions are not hours away. You should ready yourself to leave before the sun has reached its zenith for they shall not stay here as their news will be urgent as it seems it ever is in recent years."

And so it was that after more than a year Harry met a Wizard, two in fact. And both were exactly as he'd envisioned and hoped in his dreams on the last two nights.

Pointy hats, long, brightly coloured blue robes. No wands, but a long staff held like a weapon in the hands of one who knew how to use it. One was bearded and his eyes held a light and humour Harry had once known in the person of Albus Dumbledore. The other had no beard but bore himself with a strength and confidence that would engender trust in all who met him.

After more than a year, Harry felt the stirrings of hope again. His way home did not now look so distant.


	8. He Learned and Grew

"So you are the one who is to be our companion as we trek onwards?"

It was clear that the two Wizards were on an errand of great importance as they had spoken with Enelyë only very briefly. As soon as they had paid their respects they had come directly to Harry and he could see that both were intrigued by what they had been told by the Elven Lady.

It was the taller and more wizened of the two that had addressed Harry upon their meeting.

"Most in these lands call me Romestámo," he continued, he had the bearing of a pleasant older uncle. It was most comforting to Harry, a little like his now distant memories of Dumbledore before his death. "Though I have had the name Azulzîr among some in the East. My companion is Morinehtar, sometimes called Nimruzîr by our enemies here. The Elves say that you call yourself 'Harry'?"

The two wizards were as different as two men could be. Morinehtar was powerfully built, though the shorter of the two and the only hair he sported was tied well back from his face. His robes of deepest midnight blue were as well-kept as could be expected of a traveller. The staff he carried in his hand was obviously no walking stick, he carried it as a weapon and nothing less. His eyes were dark and impossible to read, his skin was deeply tanned in a way reminiscent of those of the Rethlapa.

Romestámo on the other hand was taller and sprightly looking. His eyes were a bright, flickering blue that matched his robes and held within them wise good-humour. He had a mid-length beard of greying hair, accompanied by shoulder-length hair upon his head.

"I do. I am surprised they told you it, in my time here they have rarely addressed me by my name," Harry said. In just two days he had accumulated more than three names to go along with those used by the Rethlapa. They had not been given in malice but each name meant some variation on lost stranger and he found them to be an uncomfortable reminder of his situation.

Romestámo let out an explosive laugh. "Hah! Then you are not familiar with the Kwendi, they love little more than long nights spent concocting new names and honorifics. How many names have we, old friend?" he asked Morinehtar beside him.

The shorter Wizard did not smile, but somehow Harry could feel the amusement in the man. "I know not, more than any should need."

"So do not worry overmuch about that, Harry," said Romestámo, continuing where his companion left off. "We two certainly shall name you Harry if that is your wish."

Harry already felt that both of the Wizards before him could be very good friends indeed. Friends, that was a strange thought. He supposed that the Rethlapa had been friends, even Daewen, but it wasn't until now that he'd been given to thinking in such terms.

"You have my thanks, it is getting near time that I will not be able to remember them all, I certainly do not need any more!"

"So be it!" proclaimed Romestámo with an air of finality. "Now, I am told also that you seek the counsel of Saruman, who the Kwendi call Kurumir, the leader of our Order?"

"It may be, now that I have found you, that I do not need to seek him at all," said Harry, his voice full of hope. "I sought a Wizard and he was the only such known to me."

"Do you hear that, old friend?" said Romestámo as he nudged the other wizard. "I shall be sure to tell Saruman of this when we meet him two weeks hence."

"If you seek more than words from us then you must know that our news is urgent and we cannot be turned aside from our path," said Morinehtar as he levelled his serious gaze at Harry.

"Words, knowledge, wisdom," said Harry with a nod. "All is needed. Action, I hope, will not be in great need. At least, not from you."

"Good indeed!" proclaimed Romestámo and he clapped his hands with finality. "Then gather your things, young Harry. We shall be moving on as soon as we may and it would not do to be left behind."

"What little I have is already gathered, I am ready to leave as soon as you are," said Harry. He had little enough to his name as it was.

"Good, good," said Romestámo with enthusiasm while his companion nodded approvingly. "Then all that is needed is to wish your hosts good-bye, come we two should do it also."

All three men began walking towards the middle of the settlement where usually Enelyё could be found offering guidance to her people on all subjects. Every small issue, every slight and every concern was brought to her to be addressed, Harry had watched for a time on the previous day but they had spoken only in their own tongue and he had been unable to understand.

"So, my boy," said Romestámo conversationally as they walked. "How came you here, it is strange indeed to see a Man among the Kwendi."

"Until recently I was travelling with one of the plains tribes, I have been searching for Saruman for months," Harry explained briefly, he would have time for a more full explanation later. "I came here only two nights ago."

Morinehtar turned his inscrutable eyes upon Harry. "Among the plains tribes? Which did you walk with?"

"I found one of the groups of Rethlapa that had travelled far to the west in search of trade with the Dwarves of the Grey Mountains," Harry responded, his gaze becoming distant as he thought of the people he'd left behind.

"You were lucky to come upon them," said Romestámo while Morinehtar cast an assaying eye over Harry, as if judging worth. "Many of the plains tribes remember still the ways of the old Wainriders. I fear they would not have been so kind."

Harry nodded, and thought back to the casualties in the attack not a month past. "I discovered that for myself," he said, his voice low.

Before any more questions could be asked or answered they came upon the centre of the settlement where Enelyё was offering softly spoken advice to two other Elves. Harry could not understand what she was saying but Romestámo, who must have had very acute hearing indeed, chuckled at whatever problem the two Elves were having.

"So already it is time for you to leave us," said Enelyë when she saw their approach. "Back out into the dark world so filled with pain and suffering."

"Not so full as that," said Romestámo before Harry could formulate a response. "Ever is there hope while there are yet those who will carry its light into the dark places."

The matriarch of the Kwendi shook her head. The action held within it a tiredness, not unlike that of a teacher confronted with a sorely misguided child after a long day of teaching and guidance. "And yet as soon as the light has passed on the dark returns, now even darker than before." She turned to Harry. "I will offer only one more piece of advice to you, Vinrána. Short is the time of your people, do not squander it in hopeless search for that which cannot exist. The evening of the world approaches in the days yet far-off in the reckoning of men, I feel it as I have felt it before, ever closer it comes. As the sun wanes with each new star-rise so too does the world. Rejoice that your short years will not cause you to see it come about."

Harry knew that she could not truly understand his situation, but nevertheless he said, "Thank you, my Lady."

All three men bowed their heads to the Elvish leader, and she returned in kind. "Go well."

Harry and his two newest companions set out northwards, towards the high snow-capped mountains visible through the watercolour tree-tops. For a short while they walked in silence, but soon Romestámo felt the need to reopen the conversation.

"Melancholy has long been the companion of the Lady of these woods," he said to Harry, giving explanation to questions unasked. "Ancient beyond the count of Men, she has seen much and more. You should not be too quick to take her words to heart, she sees the world differently, the weight of years and sorrow distorts all senses."

"On the first night, they sung of the awakening of their people," said Harry, his voice distant as he thought of the stories told two nights previous. "One of the first shared a name with her, I did not give it much thought at the time."

"That is she," said Morinehtar with a grave nod. "Enelyë, wife of Enel and fifth of her people to awaken."

"Those days have long passed out of the memory of Men," said the other Wizard. "Few even of the Eldar in the West remember those days, told only as stories and legends of their people." He sighed and shook his head. "And she has been without Enel for longer than Men have walked Middle-earth. She can be forgiven the darkness of her dooms. Children lost to the West, a husband lost to the North and much of her people lost to the South."

Morinehtar grunted and shook his head. "And more will be lost should she not release them to take action."

Harry looked between both Wizards, it was clear that more passed between them than mere words and this was an argument as old as any.

"Long years we have been having this discussion, old friend and I would not inflict it upon our new companion," said Romestámo before he turned to Harry as they all walked. "Come now, you had a story to tell and we now have the time to hear it. Would you tell it?"

"I did." Harry took a deep breath. In many ways this would be the moment of truth, the moment that his long months of travel was leading towards.

"I am not from this world," he began eventually. "The world I grew up in was completely different. I do not know how I could even describe it to you in a way that would make sense, none of the tongues I have learned here have the words I'd need. Or, if they do, I have not learned them."

He thought back to the towering pinnacles of the Hogwarts towers. The lights and smells of Diagon Alley. Even the mundane was now fantastic, cars, trains, TVs, modern buildings. How could he hope to explain all that in the language of a people who had little enough use for villages, let alone a city like London.

"There was a war, a battle, between magic users. In the end it was always to be between me and Voldemort, and so I went to him alone as I learned had to happen. I stood before him as he cast the spell that would kill me and I accepted that the end had come. I _was_ dead. I think. I cannot really remember it."

"Then… then I remember words. Words in the Black Speech, words which I shall never again utter to darken this world. I was summoned from beyond, wherever that was, and brought here, to this world. When I awoke it was dark and there was fire all around; I was trapped between burning heat and biting cold. Above me stood the black figure of the Witch King of Angmar…" he trailed off and looked between the two wizards, a question on his lips.

"We know of whom you speak," said Morinehtar, his dark eyes even more grave than usual. "The Lord of Nazgûl, the greatest of the Nine. Our enemy."

"What of your world? 'Magic', you say in the way of the Rethlapa. Is it the Sorcery of Angmar or more akin to the Enchantment of the Elves?" asked Romestámo.

Harry shook his head. "It is hard to describe, it _was_ hard to describe, even in the words of my own tongue. I have seen little enough of the magic of the Elves, in truth I have heard only stories from an Elf who travelled with me for while. Of the _sorcery"_ — he tasted the word —"of Angmar I saw all too much. The magic I knew was in some ways similar but at the same time so very different."

"How to explain it to you," he mused. "The sorcery of Angmar is like a blight upon all it touches, only the corrupt and evil wield it and it… pollutes the world by its presence. It was like an itch in my bones and in my mind. Even now, after months free of it, I can feel the memory of that itch, like it is just waiting to be renewed. Some of the magic of my home was like that, though scarcely so vile. It is… like the worst of the magic of my home, made worse. And yet it feels weaker, no. That's not right. It is more fickle, as if it has a will of its own and wishes to see it completed."

Romestámo looked like he wished to say something and Harry paused. The Wizard blinked and shook his head. "Do not mind me, my questions will keep until you are done, what of your magic?"

"My magic was wonderful, and terrible." He fell silent for a moment as he tried to think of a way to explain it. Suddenly he thought of something he'd seen in one of the few moments he'd been able to watch the TV at the Dursleys, if only briefly. "It was like… I do not know a word for it in the language. In my world we had great bands of musicians and each carried many different instruments and played a different tune. It would have been chaos, it should have been, but there was one last thing that saved it. A man with a stick who stood before all of the leaderless musicians and guided them with the most delicate of movements and gestures. The music no more belonged to him than it did to anyone else and yet it obeyed his direction."

"That is what my magic was like, or, that is what I imagine it felt like for the best Wizards." He kicked at a stick that lay in his path. "I was not the most dutiful student and I did not even complete my education," he finished.

"You speak well," rumbled Morinehtar once it was clear Harry was done. "Yet what you speak of is troubling."

"Indeed," agreed Romestámo as he flicked his beard absent-mindedly. "You speak of world separated in whole from this one, beyond even the sight of the Valar. How could the Witch King see, nay, even _reach into_ such a realm? Terrible though his power is it is not a spark beside the flames of the Valar."

Morinehtar spoke again; "Death had claimed his body. The Witch King has ever had one foot within that realm and a power over the spirits of the lost. Do not forget the black spirits that infested Cardolan at his command in years past. It is said Wights remain within the barrows still."

"You speak truth," Romestámo admitted. "I had allowed myself to forget. Even so, the dead do not readily return to life, and there is no power of the Witch King's that could do it. It is beyond even his Dark master. Even the dread power of Morgoth could not bring life to that which was dead."

" _Morgoth_ was the one they tried to summon," said Harry as he remembered the words spoken a lifetime ago mere hours after Angmar had fallen. "Instead they got me." He grimaced. "They were not pleased."

"But you endured it, my boy," said Romestámo as he laid a comforting hand upon Harry's shoulder. "Think not of those dark days. Tell us more of the magic of your home, I should like to hear more."

"There is not much more to tell, really," said Harry reluctantly. "At least, not without beginning with the first of my lessons. Magic could be used to build, to destroy, to protect and to kill. It could be used to aid and it could be used to dominate."

"Beauty and terror, as you said," Morinehtar said with a nod. "But you did not tell us this story for our own wonder." He shot a reproachful glance at Romestámo. "What help did you hope we could give?"

This was the moment. "I had hoped you might be able to tell me how I might return home?"

Romestámo shook his head sadly. "I am sorry, my boy. But I can little imagine how you came to be here, I would have no idea how you might be able to return. What of you, old friend?"

"That knowledge is not mine either," admitted Morinehtar. "Yet this is not the time to despair, Harry. Saruman is more wise and more learned than either of us. We are but wanderers in the wilderness. It is he who has spent long years in study of the machinations of the enemy."

"If there is anyone in Middle-earth who might be able to return you to the home you have lost it would be Saruman," agreed Romestámo. "He has delved deeper into the works of our foes than any other. His knowledge of the lore runs deep, do not give up."

Despite their words Harry felt the flame of hope gutter and threaten to die. For long months he had tended it with a single minded devotion, now his future rested upon a knife-edge. If Saruman did not know then there was only one other who might, and Harry had no desire to meet _him_ again.

o-o

"What of your magic?" asked Harry that night as the three travellers sat about a campfire. Throughout the whole day he had seen not a sign of magic from the Wizards. He had warred with himself throughout the day on whether to ask them for help in reclaiming his own magic. Finally he had found the courage to open the conversation. "I think from your reaction that it is different to my own?"

Romestámo nodded in the firelight, his eyes sparkled with the reflected reds and yellows. "I sense that you are right. We are Wizards, Harry and we aid the people of Middle-earth only in their direst need. Magic is a shining beacon to all who have the sight and it is oft that stealth is a much greater strength than cheap conjurations and tricks."

"But you can do it?" Harry pressed. "Do you use a staff, as my people used wands?"

Romestámo chuckled to himself and picked up his staff, he turned it over in his hands. "In your story, the man with the stick conducting the musicians, was it the man, or the stick that was important?"

Harry's brow furrowed. "What? It was the man, of course?"

"Yet you do not sound sure," said the Wizard with continued amusement. "You believe, perhaps, that they are bound together? That it is ridiculous that a mere stick could perform such wondrous action, but at the same time why would the man carry that stick if it was not needed?"

"Authority," Morinehtar said as if it explained everything. Harry looked at him, still not comprehending and so he continued. "The commander carries the banner, and it is the banner the soldiers look for in the battle, yet it is not the banner that leads. It is the man, it is always the man."

"You mean your staff is merely your banner? The thing that marks you a Wizard?"

"There is perhaps a little more to it," admitted Romestámo, "but it serves for now. You believe that your people had need of wands to perform their magic?"

"Well, yes," said Harry before he paused to think. "No. Actually, I have done magic without it, even while I've been here. And most potions do not require it at all. But I have _tried_ to do magic without it and it never works!"

"Potions? The brews of the wise women?" asked Romestámo, clearly not understanding Harry's meaning.

"Ah, sorry. They are much more than that." He remembered the mixture of theatricality and mysticism that Úda had described to him. "They can do the truly impossible; heal wounds in minutes, change one's body to look like another, warm or chill, almost anything, really."

"You can do this without your tool?" Morinehtar's dark eyes were fixed on Harry.

"Yes, though I have few ingredients to use," Harry said, he thought for a moment before deciding that it would do no harm to offer. "Maybe I could show you?"

"We both carry with us some herbs and other things that may be of use," said Romestámo as he leant forward.

"Do not forget our errand, my friend," said Morinehtar as he turned his gaze upon his companion. "It would go ill for all if the enemy was drawn hence."

"We are far from Khamul's seat here, and the power of the Elves lies over this forest," said Romestámo as he waved his hand dismissively. "And whatever power Harry possesses it is not alike to ours, the Black Easterling will not know of us from it."

Morinehtar grunted. "Perhaps, but still I like it not."

"I am not sure I could perform great enough to draw notice, anyway," said Harry after watching the exchange. "I recognise few enough of the plants of these lands, I would not know the ingredients to use."

"Do not heed him," said Romestámo, waving off Harry's self-doubt. "Come, show me the process even if the final result is nothing of note."

Morinehtar moved to speak again but his eyes met Romestámo's and something unspoken passed between them. He relaxed a little and nodded tersely at Harry. "I also should like to see it."

Harry was unsure of what he should try to create. His gaze travelled across their small camp-site in search of an idea, at last they alighted on a small sickly looking sapling and an idea came to him.

"I will need your help to decide on what ingredients will be needed," he stated. "Morinehtar, could you pass a pot which I could use upon the fire?"

He then set about stoking the tired fire back into full vigor. It did not take him long and once he had a small amount of water boiling within the pot he looked at the unfamiliar plants and animals that had been laid out before him. He turned to the two Wizards.

"Which of these would you associate with life and renewal?" he asked them both.

"The Poldorë root is often used for healing," said Romestámo and he pointed to one of the plants, though he seemed puzzled by the question. Harry looked at the suggestion. The root was thick and heavy, dense and with thin filaments of red running through it. The plant was sturdy and had leathery leaves.

Harry shook his head. "No, not what they're used for, at least not just that. It is about…" he tried to think of a way of explaining. "The feeling it gives. Here, better that I show you."

"This, the Poldorë plant. It is all wrong. Life is about birth, growth, death and renewal. It is about green saplings and shoots, seeds and fruits. It is about striving and hoping and driving for more and better. This plant is none of those things. It is hardy and sturdy, it is about resisting the death, not rejoicing in life. My old mentor often said that a life well lived had no fear of death." He looked at the other plants arrayed upon the ground. He saw something more suitable. "This one, though, is much better." The bark was a youthful green and the leaves were soft and new despite the ever colder nights.

"But that is poisonous!" said Romestámo as he frowned at the plant that Harry had picked up to look at more closely.

"My old teacher always said that Death is a part of life," said Harry faintly as he rubbed one of the leaves between his fingers. "Without it life is little more than existence, like a ghost who wanders the same halls for eternity."

He shaved off a small amount of the bark into the pot.

"But you are right, poison alone will not work. We must add something to protect against it, do you have a suggestion?"

And so it continued. Sometimes Romestámo would offer a suggestion and Harry would nod approvingly as he looked at the choice. Other times he would frown and shake his head before explaining why he did not believe it was suitable. Morinehtar looked on in silence, his face unreadable. A few times Harry asked other questions, sometimes on the history of the plant, or the meaning of the name. Sometimes he asked where they grew, or how they flowered or spread.

He sounded much more confident than he felt. In truth he felt as if he was guessing. As if he was throwing ingredients in almost at random. Yet, as the colour changed from clear to autumnal orange to pale blue to a final vibrant green he felt like, somehow, it had all worked.

"There," he said when the surface of the potion smoothed to a perfect leafy green. "It's done."

Romestámo had voiced his amazement when the potion had begun to roil and change colour as the conflicting ingredients started to interact. Even Morinehtar's stony gaze had become sharper and more interested.

Harry picked up the pot and carried it across to the sapling he'd seen earlier.

"Will it not scald the seedling?" asked Morinehtar as Harry prepared to empty the contents over the plant.

"No." Harry shook his head, that was one thing he was sure of. "This potion is tailored to bring renewal and growth, it will not harm it. If we have done it right."

As he poured the potion over the sapling and around the base of its stem he watched closely for any sign of a result. He was sure he'd see something, as with the potions he'd made before this one simply felt right in a way he couldn't describe.

Yet nothing happened.

He up-ended the whole pot over the sapling and watched it for long minutes and saw no change to it.

Romestámo and Morinehtar shared another look between them and the taller and more jovial of the two moved forward to console Harry.

"Not to worry, lad." He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Perhaps we got something wrong."

Harry could hear the kind dismissal in his voice and it cut like a knife, he felt anger and betrayal bubble up and his fists clenched. Who was this old man to judge _him?_ He wouldn't have even been able to make a cauldron explode and he was dismissing Harry?

He closed his eyes and took two deep, settling breaths. He brought into his mind the stars that had turned above him on the first night he'd spent in this wood and he felt the anger slowly melt away again though still it lay hidden beneath the surface.

"Perhaps," he managed to say before pulling away from the elder Wizard. He stalked across to the warm bedroll he'd been gifted by the Elves. He preferred Regana's scratchy bedsheet as it was something earned, not gifted, but as the fire waned and the night frost began to pick its way across leaf and stalk he found that it was not warm enough.

He wrapped himself up in both of his gifts and slowly drifted into sleep, he paid no heed to the quiet whispering of the two Wizards. He could imagine what it was they were saying.

o-o

"My word."

Harry was awoken the next morning by Romestámo's surprised utterance. He blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes and looked up to see what had so shocked the Wizard.

The early morning sun had washed over their encampment and already the frost was melting and retreating before its fire. There was a single feature, though, which caught his gaze. Where once a small, sickly-looking sapling had stood there was now a great oak tree of such height and girth that it dwarfed all others around it. Its leaves were healthy summer green while all around it were the oranges and yellows of autumn and winter. Its branches rustled and swayed in the gentle breeze and it filled the air with a scent that Harry had long thought forgotten. It brought to his mind long summer afternoons upon the Hogwarts grounds, the dry light scent of a long summer day.

"It would appear that we were a little previous," admitted Romestámo as moved to inspect the tree more closely. Morinehtar was already poking at it with his staff.

Where last night Harry had felt defeat, anger and impotence he now felt not vindication but relief. He felt a prickling of pride as he watched the two speechless wizards prod at the result of his magic.

After a few minutes of inspection and mumbled words between them both Wizards approached Harry. Unusually it was Morinehtar who was first to speak. "You are owed an apology," he said without preamble. "I did not believe the words you spoke were truth. There is no doubt now that I was wrong."

The stocky wizard extended his arm to Harry and Harry took it. It was a greeting like that used by Daewen at their parting.

"I will do what I can to see you returned," he said when he released Harry's arm. "If fate wills it."

"Thank you," said Harry gratefully. "It means a lot to me, truthfully."

Morinehtar nodded solemnly and stepped aside for his friend. Romestámo was jubilant.

"I _wanted_ your words to be true," he said as he flicked at his beard. "Yet I have seen the works of the Enemy and know what it can do to the mind of a man, I feared that perhaps they had taken your wits. There is no power in darkness to do as you have done here. This is not the subtle magic of the Elves nor the stolen power of dark Men. Come, we still have a long journey to make and there is much time for you to tell me all you know."

"I was only a student, and without a teacher I am not sure how much more I will learn," said Harry, he found the enthusiasm intimidating in its unfamiliarity.

Romestámo disagreed. "Your words show a knowledge of the deeper magics that I did not believe Men could hear or understand. The knowledge is within you now, it is clear, even if you do not believe me."

"Either way," said Harry. "I am unable to do much more than talk without a wand. That much has become clear to me in the last months. Potions can only go so far."

"It is the Man, Harry," chided Romestámo. "It is always the Man. My friend is more wise than he lets on."

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As if he had not spent months in vain attempts at wandless magic, they expected their words to mean some kind of great epiphany, as if generations of Wizards had been wrong.

"I will think on it," he demurred. He had no wish to get into an argument, he was still too buoyant after his latest potions success.

"Do not discard words so lightly, Harry," said Romestámo, though his voice held no ire. "You may find that the world turns on them, in time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of the awakening of the Elves is from Tolkien, though shortened and added to. Enel and Enelye were the original leaders of the group that came to be known, mostly as the Teleri, though Silvan Elves are also most likely descended from their followers (along with the Tatyar who stayed behind). Elwe is more commonly known as Elu Thingol, the name he took when he married Melian the Maia and established the Sindarin realm of Doriath in Beleriand. There is no canon relation between Elwe and Enel/Enelye.
> 
> Harry's various names basically all mean some variant of stranger. Some mean 'stranger to us' while others mean a more general 'stranger to everyone'. However, given that there's no actual documented language form which I am pulling at the moment it seems silly to regale you all with etymologies when it basically comes down to me mixing and matching languages that do exist until something pleasing turned up.
> 
> Khamul is the second in command of the Nazgul. When the Witch King was defeated by Eowyn and Merry it was Khamul who took over. He is the only one of the Nazgul we actually have a name for and it is known that he was a king of some realm in the East.
> 
> Morinehtar and Romestámo are both largely canon. Tolkien ummed and ahhed a bit over when the Blue Wizards came to Middle-earth and how effective they were. For the most part I am using a mixture of both is later and earlier writings, but I opt for later writings when they conflict. So they came to Middle-earth long before Gandalf, Saruman and Radagast.
> 
> The Balutoth are mostly my own creation, but the intent was that they were a kind of proto-tribe for the Balchoth who, in canon, invaded the West later in the Third Age. The leader that Harry killed was no Ring Wraith and is no canon character.


	9. The Shadow Came to Ironhaunt

"You believe that a short length of wood will aid you in regaining control of the magic you knew?"

Harry and the two Wizards were again journeying towards the great mountain of Raedmunt to the north. After getting over his surprise Harry had elected to take from the tree he'd created a few sticks of differing length and thickness.

Breaking them off had felt wrong, somehow. He couldn't put his finger quite on what had felt wrong but he had a suspicion that the potion he'd used had something to do with it.

"My people learn to use magic using wands," Harry explained in answer to Romestámo's question. "Even if it is possible to use it without a wand, I do not think it would be easy."

In all honesty Harry did not think it would be possible to perform anything but the meanest and least focussed acts of magic without a wand. If even people such as Dumbledore and Voldemort carried wands and used them for even small tasks then what was the chance that he'd be able to better them?

No, wand magic was what he knew, and he knew he _could_ do it. Romestámo and Morinehtar claimed to have skills very different from his own, though they still called them magic in the language of the Rethlapa. From his earlier conversations with them he gathered that they still drew a distinction between their own brand of magic and that practiced by others. For Harry that meant that even if his two companions claimed that magic was possible without a wand that was no strong evidence that Harry would be able to do the same.

"Then how do you hope to use it?" asked Romestámo as he watched Harry play with one of the switches he'd cut from his tree.

"On the face of it, it is simple," said Harry. He stopped playing with the stick and held it like he would a wand, a light grasp with the stick held only by his fingertips to give the greatest flexibility. "The first spell we were ever taught was for making things fly."

He swished and flicked the wand in the familiar way, the long remembered action was oddly comforting. " _Wingardium Leviosa._ "

The leaf at which he'd been aiming did not budge, of course, but then he hadn't expected it to.

"From where does the power come to perform the feat?" asked Morinehtar who'd been looking on silently.

Harry frowned as he thought about it. He'd never really thought of it in those terms. "I think Dumbledore would say that that was the wrong question," he ventured eventually.

"A wise man," said Romestámo as he fiddled with his beard, weaving strands between his fingers.

"Yet the wiser man would say that there are no wrong questions," said Morinehtar. The interplay between the two men was a strange one and Harry was only slowly becoming accustomed to it. Each seemed to be able to communicate something much more to the other than mere words should allow.

"Either way," said Harry after a little more thought. "I could not answer that question for you. I have never thought about magic in such terms. If you had seen Dumbledore at work you would understand, I think. It is like asking of a musician, 'where does the music come from' or asking a painter where it is they find 'art'."

"Perhaps it is for the best," admitted Romestámo. "The dark sorcery of the Witch King and his ilk are wholly concerned with power and the ability to wield and impose it."

Morinehtar inclined his head slightly. "Indeed, it speaks well of you that you do not see it as such. Though I think the Elves might be able to point you towards the answers to those questions."

"But what of the words that you used?" asked Romestámo. "An incantation of some sort, alike to the dark chants of eastern sorcery?"

Harry frowned and cast his mind back to those early lessons. It had been some weeks before they had progressed to using true spells and there had been some explanation of the purpose of the spoken words but he could not now remember it. He had been much too excited to try the spells to pay much heed to those more pedestrian aspects.

"I… am not sure," he said eventually. "They were in an old language from my home but I don't think it was at all exact."

"The 'spell' you spoke, what did it mean then, in the words of the old tongue?" asked Romestámo in interest.

"That is what puzzles me," admitted Harry as he tried to remember the lessons, he could only vaguely remember a mention that it was not truly about the _meaning_ of the words or phrase. " _Wing_ is from a different language altogether from the rest of the spell. I think… I am not sure. I remember my teacher saying that the true meaning of the words was not altogether important but I cannot remember what the _true_ focus was. It did not seem important at the time."

Romestámo chuckled to himself and Harry looked to him in askance. "I have not yet met the child who would be able to keep their focus on such matters when the possibility of magic is held just out of reach."

"Then how do you see magic?" Harry asked as he tried to push the thought of one who _could_ pay attention to such things to the back of his mind. It would do him no good to wallow in loss while there was still hope to see him returned.

Perhaps understanding something of the differing magic of the world would help in that, perhaps not. In either case they had a long journey ahead of them and there would be long hours to fill.

There was a short pause before Romestámo spoke. "Do you know, Harry, that you might be the first to ask that of us in all of our long years? Most would ask us what it can do."

"What it could do for _them_ ," interjected Morinehtar.

"Indeed, I have never thought of it, in truth," said Romestámo and he began flicking absentmindedly at his beard again. "It is simply a part of me, as natural as breathing."

"Nay," said Morinehtar in disagreement. "Not like breathing, for we use it only in direst need. It is a crutch we hope to never need, a weapon we hope to never wield."

"You speak truth, old friend. Not like breathing. It is more like a language we may speak at times of greatest woe that will always be heard. And yet, like the man who would wield his sword to cut firewood and then finds it blunt when in true need we must be wary of overusing it."

When Romestámo stopped speaking a glance passed between him and the other Wizard. Harry did not know what was communicated in that glance but he was unable to get them to continue to explain their magic.

It was not until the following night and near to two days of walking that Harry was able to gain another kernel of understanding from his two companions.

That day the winter weather finally descended upon the forest with a vengeance. While the wood and what remained of the canopy kept the bitterly cold southerly wind in check the heavy winter rains were not wholly turned aside. Though Harry found that his clothes were mostly up to the task they all still found themselves shivering in the frigid air as night descended.

It was the first time Harry saw magic from either of his two companions. It was a simple thing, almost mundane in its manifestation. Morinehtar crouched low over the soaked firewood, he held his hands close to it and Harry heard him mumble some words in a language Harry did not recognise. It was alike to the tongues of the Elves in form, but the words of those languages were still alien to him.

"Aparuivë urtuva ancalima, lauca cálë ettuluva. Sin, ettuluva!" muttered the Wizard and then slowly a fire grew between his hands and within the damp wood they had collected. The fire began to spit and spurt as it grew, unheeding of the cold and the wet and soon they were all huddled around the blazing warmth.

"Could you tell me how you did that?" Harry asked once all were once again warm, though not yet dry. "Perhaps it would help me?"

Morinehtar's expression was as stoic as ever though there was perhaps the barest flicker of regret within his dark eyes. "You ask for that which I cannot grant."

Frustration bubbled dangerously below the surface though outwardly Harry managed to remain calm, the only clue to his thoughts was in the clenching of his fists. " _Why_ can't you tell me?"

A hand came down on his shoulder and he twisted away with a start. He looked up to see that it was only Romestámo, returned from scouting around their camp. "Be calm, Harry," said the bearded Wizard softly. "We hold no ill will against you, but in this our hands are tied. Our purpose here is not one we may divulge, even if we wish to. To tell you of our magic, and to tell you of our nature are nigh one and the same."

"And so you cannot tell me anything?" Harry asked after taking a moment to calm himself again. He reminded himself of the secrecy of the Horcrux Hunt and tried to extend to his two companions the same understanding that he'd hoped to gain from his own friends. It was not easy.

"I fear we cannot," said Romestámo sadly. "But I will talk to Saruman on your behalf, perhaps he will consider it, with you in the position you are."

Harry did not contest the matter further as it was obvious that no headway would be made. He merely hoped that his position, whatever that may be, did indeed convince Saruman to share his knowledge.

o-o

Morinehtar's dark eyes were affixed on Harry and it was clear that the mind behind them was lost in deep thought. Harry shifted uncomfortably under the gaze. They had been travelling together for near to a week and though Harry had gained a passing familiarity with both men he could not yet feel he could consider them friends.

They were kind enough, and Romestámo, at least, was familiar with him but they still held themselves apart. Morinehtar more so than Romestámo but it was still obvious to Harry. Perhaps it was more recognisable to Harry because he was guilty of the same.

"You said that you had been travelling amongst one of the plains tribes," Morinehtar asked eventually.

Harry nodded slowly, unsure of the man's reason for asking. "I did."

"We have not told you the reason for our trek to meet Saruman," said the serious Wizard, his voice thoughtful. He met Harry's eyes. "There has been unrest amongst the plains tribes in recent years. One has been cutting a bloody swathe across the plains of Rhûn, led by a man they called Bawbuthôr, a great Captain in the armies of Ub-khûn to the south of here. It is said he was killed a few short week ago, Ub-khûn is on the path to war."

Harry's eyes widened. "The Balutoth?" he asked needlessly, in truth he was already certain.

The dark eyes of Morinehtar glittered with something; satisfaction, perhaps. "So you know of the battle?"

Harry took a breath and tried to center himself. He nodded once, the action was jerky. "War? Why?"

From behind Harry, Romestámo's voice joined the conversation as he returned from his ranging about the camp. "Khamûl cannot allow such trespass against his own, he has long had designs upon the tribes of Rhûn. The death of his Captain is a grave insult and one that he will not suffer idly."

"I have to warn them." Harry immediately pushed himself to his feet but Romestámo once again placed a quelling hand upon his shoulder.

"Your friends will already know by now, Harry," he said gently. "And you know not where you would be able to find them, do you?"

"It is my fault that they are in danger," Harry gritted his teeth and brushed the hand from his shoulder. "I cannot just run away."

"And nor can you just run back into the waiting maw of the enemy," said Morinehtar, his voice was deep and seemed to reverberate between the trees, the skeletal canopy whispered and murmured in response. There was a power there that Harry had not heard before. He stilled.

"Then what would you have me do? Cower in the dark? I will _never_ —"

"Nay, not cower." The power in Morinehtar's voice remained and Harry quieted almost instinctively to listen. "But there is little to be gained in rash action. There is power in your blood and in your words, we both have felt it but such power is not to be wielded lightly. The folk of the plains are hardy and their land is broad and treacherous in the depth of winter. They do not need your aid. That little that you can now give."

Harry slumped. The dark-skinned wizard was right, there was little enough aid that Harry could offer even if he _could_ find the Rethlapa again. Potions, perhaps, healing and aid. He could not help them fight a war. Their only hope lay in evasion and that was an area in which he had nigh no experience.

"Perhaps you may aid them," suggested Romestámo, his voice was without the power and authority of Morinehtar, instead it was kind and soft. "We both have seen your power and with guidance and focus you could perhaps have the strength to stand against the darkness in its wroth but is that truly what you wish?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know," admitted Harry. He dropped himself back to the ground and rubbed at his face with his calloused hands. He found himself staring at the pale scars that crisscrossed them; under there, somewhere, were the words 'I must not tell lies'. He couldn't forget that, he couldn't forget where he'd come from, who he really as. He felt like he was grasping at his thoughts, trying to understand them but every time he came close they would slip away. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't want to let them get away with what they did to me. I don't want them to do it to anyone else."

"Then you have a choice to make," said Romestámo as he nodded in understanding. "And it is one that you alone may make. It may be there there is no good answer, and certainly no easy one, but such are the decisions we all must make in these dark times."

Harry smiled wanly. "My old teacher said that sometimes we must choose between what is right, and what is easy."

"Your teacher was half right; there are no easy choices in the dark," said Morinehtar, his voice at last returned to normal. It was still strong and authoritative, but without the undercurrent of command and menace that had earlier been present. "And there are precious few good ones. Most choices are bad, though they may masquerade as good, or easy."

Harry sat quietly through the remainder of the evening, lost in an internal battle.

Whatever choice he made he would be abandoning someone, somewhere. His heart still ached to return to his home, and that dark corner of his mind whispered that they were, after all his true friends. But despite long torture and imposed darkness he was Harry Potter still and he rebelled at the thought of abandoning anyone to the fate that he had been forced to endure upon his arrival.

Just as he'd known it wasn't within him to abandon Hermione to the troll or Ginny to the basilisk despite barely knowing them, he knew that he couldn't simply leave those he'd met here.

The fire burned lower and lower and Harry absentmindedly continued to pile more fuel upon it as the night marched on towards morning.

There was little enough that he _could_ do though. He couldn't wield a weapon, the meagre skills he had earned with his staff were almost not worth mentioning, and it would take years to learn. His magic was nigh useless and while he could make potions he doubted there would be many in the world who had the magic necessary to follow his guidance. Even if there were, how could he hope to find them?

Another part of him, a part that had long kept him to desks at the back of every classroom, whispered that maybe they would be better without him anyway. It was his own presence that had led the Rethlapa to being in the place where they'd been attacked, whatever they might have said afterwards.

Perhaps the best thing he could do was grant what aid he could and leave as soon as he was able, that way at least he could be sure that his presence would do no further harm, even if it also did precious little good. If he tried to fight now there was little more that he could hope to do than bleed upon the enemy when they came upon him with their swords and many more years of practice in wielding them.

Harry laughed sadly and shook his head wearily. Perhaps his blood would burn them like it had Voldemort, but there was small hope of that. The power of his mother's magic, even now still running in his veins was surely no protection against the horrors hiding in the darkness of this new world.

His blood. He stilled. Perhaps the sole purely magical ingredient he would be able to find in this place. Could it be that simple? Had the answer to his problems been running in his own veins all this time?

He found that he was staring blindly at one of the sticks he'd taken from his tree, now days behind them. He moved as if in a dream; a knife from Romestámo's pack and his wand to be had been split in two, a narrow groove cut down the centre of one of the halves. A quick slash across his palm and blood squeezed from the wound. Wind whispered in the trees as the thick blood slowly slid down a finger into the furrow cut in his switch.

The fire burned lower as he worked, shadows marched across their small clearing as it began to sputter and die in the deep darkness of the thick woodland. Harry paid it no heed. He fetched twine from one of the food-packs and the two halves of his wand were tied together, uneven and ragged but there was something there.

For the first time it felt like he held in his hands a wand, but the sensation was unfamiliar and wrong. Rather than the unrestrained joy he'd felt from his phoenix feather wand he felt pain and sadness. Where Malfoy's wand had been reluctantly dutiful this new creation screamed of impotent rage and vengeance long sought.

He almost dropped it, so alien was the sensation. Even then though, something in the feelings spoke to him. Like a memory.

He closed a fist around it and willed himself to ignore the feeling of discomfort, instead he turned it towards the cut upon his hand, still oozing thick dark blood, a black stain in the dim light. _"Episkey."_

A flash of red light, deep and unpleasant flickered across the clearing for a moment, it shone from the rough-hewn joins in the wood. His hand burned with pain and he hissed as he tried not to wake his companions from their slumber, for a moment his blood ran like fire in his veins. The wand smoked, the twine he'd used to hastily lash it together was blackened and thin lines of burned wood traced the grain of the wand from stem to tip.

But when he looked at his hand the wound was slowly, so slowly, knitting together. He grimaced as he watched the cut melt away, the burning sensation was still far from comfortable. That was almost irrelevant though, it had worked. He had done magic, real controlled magic.

He smiled, and in the dying firelight his visage could only be fearful as the pale scars still visible upon his face twisted into the unfamiliar expression and revealed broken teeth.

In that moment Harry did not care for a whit for the tortures of the past, all that mattered now was the future and the choice he would have to make.

It was late indeed when he finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, still unsure of what he should do. Shadows pursued him through broken dreams.

o-o

"Dwarves can be a prickly bunch," explained Romestámo a few days later as the three travellers climbed slowly towards a destination unknown to Harry. "They are often curt to the point of rudeness and are not often prone to beating about the bush. I do not believe you will have any problem with them, Harry, but you would do well to remember that of all of the children of Ilúvatar the Dwarves are the most secretive.

"They hoard knowledge much like they do gold and precious jewels, it would be best if you do not question them overmuch for they take a dim view of such things, I believe they think it akin to asking for charity."

Morinehtar confirmed Romestámo's assessment. "Charity is given, not demanded. They are good folk. Hardy and not prone to cruelty or darkness, once you are a friend of the Dwarves they will not likely forget you."

"But they are not inclined to give any gifts freely, including the gift of their friendship. As with all things Dwarvish, such things are given only grudgingly," finished Romestámo and Harry could see a fond smile nearly hidden beneath his thick beard.

Harry thought back to how Daewen had described the Dwarven race all those weeks ago and tried to line up both descriptions. It seemed that likening them to the Goblin inhabitants of Gringotts might just have been accurate, though he resolved to keep an open mind when he met them. It was obvious that both of his companions held a healthy respect for them. Daewen _had_ said that there was bad-blood between her own kind and theirs, after-all.

Romestámo started talking again after a short pause, "When we enter beneath Aradi-unâ, the Mountain of Raedmunt, and into the city of Zirin-yâdu we will present you to King Ginnar. He is a good King, if inexperienced. You need not worry overmuch on his reception."

"Is there anything I should avoid?" Harry asked, imagining again the ease with which the Goblins of his home could take offense. "Anything that might insult them?"

Romestámo chuckled and shook his head. "Dwarves have long had contact with Men, even Elves. There is little you could do which would offer real insult, I think, in truth, that many Dwarves regard Men as alike to children. Dwarves live a span of years twice, or thrice that of even long lived Men, only those of Numenor lost could equal them. It is no surprise that they are often willing to indulge Men in their youthful ignorance."

"There is one thing you should note," said Morinehtar, his voice sombre. "Their names are precious to them, and spoken only among those closest, and never among those not of the Six Clans. Should you hear one you would do well to forget it, or at least to never speak of it."

"Then…" Harry's voice trailed off and his brow furrowed in confusion. "How do I address them? Is King Ginnar a title?"

"Ha! He has you there, my old friend," said Romestámo, clearly happy to gently rib his companion. In a moment he became more serious and explained, "They take Mannish names to be used among other races, Ginnar is not his true name, I doubt even Saruman knows his name in Khuzdul. Any name they speak to you freely is one you may use without worry. I do not think you need concern yourself with the matter at all, in truth. It has been a millennia since a Dwarf's inner name became known, to his great shame."

Not for the first time Harry found himself seeing adrift in the alien cultures of his new world. He was grateful that this time he had the guidance of the two elder Wizards. It was of absolute importance that he be allowed to speak with Saruman.

Eventually the well worn mountain path upon which they had been climbing ran up against a sheer cliff and Romestámo turned to follow the dark stone of the cliff base. It seemed to Harry as if they were lost but by now he had come to appreciate the clear experience that both Wizards had gained in long years of wandering in the wilderness.

In any case, in those few days since he had at last been able to craft a wand he had felt a change come over him. Though the wand was unpleasant and the sensations when he wielded it were a constant reminder of his experiences in Carn Dûm it lent him a confidence. A few weeks after he'd been released from those dungeons he'd at last begun to feel human again. How, with a wand within his reach —no matter how rough or unpleasant— he at last began to feel again like Harry Potter.

If his companions had noticed a change in his demeanor then they had said nothing, though on occasion Harry thought he could feel the heavy gaze of Morinehtar upon his back while he walked. He knew not the bent of the thoughts behind those dark eyes, and Morinehtar spoke not of them. He had not touched his wand since the night he'd created it though, and Morinehtar was oft prone to thoughtful ponderings.

Certainly they had discussed no further the plight of the Rethlapa. Morinehtar could communicate quite without sound that there was nothing more to be said on the matter. Indeed even Romestámo had said only a single thing on the subject since, "It is to Saruman that you should take your worries Harry, he was ever wiser and more far sighted than either of us."

They soon came upon a great cleft in the cliff, hundreds of feet high and wide enough that it could have permitted even one of the great wains of the Rethlapa entrance. As they ventured into the fissure Romestámo began speaking again in his characteristically cheerful manner.

"Tell me, Harry, look up and say what it is you see," he said as he ran a couple of his fingers along the smooth stone.

Above them a narrow strip of the sky was visible, the cold clear blue of early winter. In front of them was the great peak of Raedmunt reaching towards the sky and behind them was a great mountain of clouds, almost a mirror image of the peak to their fore. Harry turned his head between the two mountains, one eternal and immovable and other other ever changing and fleeting.

"The name Aradi-unâ, in the Dwarvish tongue means Greater Peak of Two," said Romestámo in the way of one imparting valuable information. "I have always felt that it was more fitting than Raedmunt."

"It is said that the father of the Ironfists came upon this place after wandering long and far. Ever, it is said, do Dwarves look downwards, towards the roots of the world, towards the glories of the past but Onar, Father of the Ironfists looked toward the sky and saw a great pale mountain." Romestámo gestured in the direction of the cloud mountain behind them. "But it was only a dream of the future. Then he turned and saw a greater peak, the mirror of the sky peak, taller and with deep roots in the earth. He said that here his people would remain until the breaking and then remaking of the world."

Morinehtar chuckled quietly. "Yet the Elves would say that Dwarves cannot understand poetry or beauty."

They walked along the cleft for a while longer and it eventually broadened to the point where more than five of the Rethlapa Wains could have travelled abreast and they came at last upon Mekhem Fikhîb-Izrên, the Unyielding Gate of Iron. Of all the structures Harry had seen since arriving in his new world the great Gate was by far the most impressive.

Tall enough to permit even the tallest of giants from Harry's home and broad enough to fit two carts the gates towered over the approaching travellers. Wrought entirely of iron the Dwarvish master smiths had nonetheless managed to coax a rainbow of hues from the metal through different forming and firing techniques. A great tableau was written across the gates in every shade of iron known to Dwarvish craft within it the axes and hammers of the Dwarves shone against the dark forms of their shapeless foes.

As they all came closer Harry heard a shout from some unseen parapet high above the gates and a moment later they opened with an impossible serenity. No grinding of stone upon stone could be heard, no creaking of gears. It was as if they slid open entirely unaided; the magic of the true artisan.

Behind the doors stumped a bearded figure, Harry's first sight of a Dwarf. He was a little taller than Harry had expected, only a little under five feet, and bore a lavishly coifed beard that would surely have reached to his feet if it hadn't been so carefully waxed and kept.

"Id-Naddad!" called the Dwarf in a bass, gravelly voice that carried easily across the space between them. "And a guest, just as Lastûn said. I should not be surprised after all these years, his eyes always did see farther than any Dwarf."

Romestámo smiled and returned the greeting. "Buri, it is good to see you again, how is little Onar?"

Buri stopped short and his beard twitched in a way that communicated the broad smile beneath. "Growing like a Rockworm! He's already taller than his mother now come, come! I have been bade bring you and your guest to the King, he wishes to hear news from the South."

Almost immediately Buri span upon his heel and led the three travellers through the great Gates and into the halls of the great Dwarf city of Zirin-yâdu, or Ironhaunt in the words of Men. Upon entering into the lofty outer halls Harry was struck dumb. A broad floor of dark polished stone, flecked with metallic crystals that shone in the mixed candlelight and sunlight, stretched out before them. Dwarves in their hundreds stomped this way and that across the stone, seemingly unheeding of the scene through which they walked. Great pillars jutted from the ground, ten times as broad again as the pillars of Gringotts. Across every wall and every pillar iron and steel had been spun into intricate patterns, like a filigree in dull silver, red, and bronze.

The pillars disappeared into shifting shadows high overhead and gems shone in the distant vaulted ceilings. Hidden shafts cut through the living rock and clad in polished steel sheparded light into the great spaces and everything shone as if delighting in the warmth of a distant dawn.

There were no comparisons Harry could draw, the Great Hall of Hogwarts was a hovel next to the Halls of Zirin-yâdu.

Harry was roused from his slackened daze by a deep chuckle. "There are few riches to be found in the mines below Ironhaunt," said Morinehtar with a rare fond gleam in his eye. "It is the craftsmen and metalworkers that are the true wealth of the Ironfists, even the greatest craftsmen among the Noldor could be put to shame by the craft that yet dwells here, nigh unknown to the world."

Buri led them quickly down the wide halls and vaults of Ironhaunt, passed many side corridors and bustling Dwarves. Harry turned his head this way and that in an attempt to see everything but soon had to accept that even given a life-time a city such as this would surely be capable of astonishing.

Soon they came to a great set of double doors, as large as the Mekhem Fikhîb-Izrên and even more ornate and fair. Among the fine hair-thin strands of iron and steel were woven more of gold, silver and another metal so pale that it shone as if bathed in moonlight.

The Medun Zirnîn opened smoothly, pushed by two broad shouldered Dwarves wearing heavy and ornate armour, each piece polished to an almost mirror shine. Beyond them the throne room was near filled with a throng of Dwarves, each engaged in spirited discussion with his nearest fellows. Only a narrow path down the center of the room was kept clear by more of the armoured Dwarves, it was down this path that Harry and the two wizards were led.

The throne, and the King himself were an almost underwhelming sight after the halls of his great city. The throne was squat and grey, a once commanding shape worn and softened by the years. The King was shorter even than the average Dwarf, his beard did not reach below his chest. Harry realised that the King was probably a younger Dwarf, though he had little enough knowledge of his people that it was little better than a guess.

The only item of clothing that set the King apart from his fellows was his crown, which was again old, dull and worn in a way that spoke of generations of use. King Ginnar stood, and a small nod sent Buri back towards the doors.

"It is good that you have returned at this hour, my friends," The King began without waiting for introductions. His voice was quiet and almost lost in the hubbub of the throne room. "The news coming to my ear of late has been grave, shadows are moving in the south and more come from the west with every day. What say you of your wanderings?"

It was Romestámo that responded first. "Shadows, yes, but none are yet so dark that they must fall upon the meetings of friends old, or new."

Ginnar smiled, and a smile it clearly was. His thin beard was not yet so bushy that his mouth was hidden from view like Buri's. "Ever remonstrating me, uddadad," he said wryly. "But scarcely without good reason. Very well then, come and be welcome! And let your guest be known to me."

"This is Harry, a wanderer from far to the West." Romestámo said as he pushed Harry forward lightly.

Not sure how he should introduce himself, Harry bowed low and mumbled, "Greetings, your majesty."

A deep chuckle escaped the King, and prompted Harry to look back up. "If only my own people showed the same deference," he said as he looked out over the susurrating sea of Dwarves all around them.

Harry opened his mouth to speak when a weight descended upon the room and the hundreds of speaking Dwarves lapsed into an uneasy silence.

"And so, as the Darkness looks at last in earnest towards the East a Shadow comes among the halls of Ginnar. What does the Shadow wish of us?" The deep voice was thick and sweet and seemed to fill every inch of the cavernous hall. Harry found himself turning instinctively to locate the speaker.

Not ten feet from Harry was a man in sweeping snow-white robes, with dark hair, thick eyebrows and a long straight beard. Dark eyes glinted as they looked over Harry and his face bore a calculating expression. This, Harry immediately knew, was the White Wizard; Saruman the Wise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested I will be using Neo-Khuzdul where I am in need of Dwarvish words. Dwarf names will come from the Völuspá to keep them stylistically similar to existing names (while not simply reusing known names).
> 
> Once again, almost everything here is non canon as we're too far East to be covered by Tolkien's main writings. However one thing is known: There were seven clans of Dwarves, four of which originated in the East. Those were the Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots (Stonefeet!).


	10. Time He Saw Pass Like Water

It took a moment for the buzz of Dwarven conversation to return to the throne room after the White Wizard's proclamation. Despite the power of his voice, the group of Wizards were paid very little attention by the pre-occupied Dwarves.

Romestámo was the first to react. "Ah, Saruman!" he said with clear good cheer at the meeting.

Saruman strode through the parted Dwarves and his snow white robes swept gracefully across the polished floor. He was tall, far taller than either Romestámo or Morinehtar and looked much older. His beard and hair was black, though faded in places and with lonely strands of pure white to be seen here and there. In his hand he held his staff, long and made of a dark metal. At the tip was a pale white gem that seemed to glow softly even in the well-lit hall.

Compared to the other two Wizards, Harry could quickly see why Saruman was the leader. He held himself tall, his bearing proud. His eyes were dark, like Morinehtar's but where Morinehtar's eyes held a deep wisdom Saruman's also held a keen intelligence. Harry had always known Dumbledore to hold himself with authority but Saruman held himself like nothing less than a King, the polite nod he gave to King Ginnar only confirmed Harry's estimations.

"You have been gone long, old friends," he said by way of greeting to the two blue-clad Wizards. His long beard shifted as a thin smile betrayed his happiness at their meeting. Morinehtar and Romestámo both lowered their heads in deference, met by Saruman's own smaller motion.

As he did so Morinehtar spoke gravely. "Much is there to be seen, and much have we to speak of, Saruman. The hornet's nest has been disturbed and I fear that many will feel the consequences in the days to come."

"Much as I feared. And you bring with you the harbinger of this change," said Saruman before he turned to look directly at Harry again. "I will not say that your presence here is welcome, for I have no doubt that the Black Lord of Ub-khûn would be most interested to learn of your location."

Harry blinked in surprise but before he could respond, Saruman continued. "I apologise, Ginnar, but I have need of your... guest, for a time at least."

King Ginnar, still sat quietly upon his throne, looked disappointed but did not gainsay the White Wizard. Indeed, such was the power and authority of Saruman's voice that such action would seem folly to any who listened. "Then I shall meet with you later, when Lastûn is done. Come now, uddadad," said Ginnar as he returned his gaze to Romestámo. "Tell me of your latest wanderings. What news of the South? Does Ub-khûn come north?"

"Come," said Saruman simply to Harry and he turned away, clearly trusting that Harry would follow.

Nonetheless, Harry glanced towards Romestámo for guidance. The wizard smiled at him and flicked his head towards Saruman before returning his attention to the Dwarf King. His fears alleviated just a little, Harry fell into step behind Saruman as he was led easily through the crowd of Dwarves.

It was not until Harry had been led to a small antechamber set into one of the walls of the great throne room that Saruman spoke again.

The small room was lined with shelves and every shelf up to the ceiling was crammed with more books and parchments of different ages and states of disrepair. The only light in the room came from two lamps near the door, far away from the dry books. Long shadows flitted around the room as both men entered. Saruman made his way behind a heavy looking stone table, stacked high with books and scrolls and sat upon an unadorned stone chair with his staff propped against the back-rest of his seat.

He leaned back where he sat and stared at Harry for a long second. Once again Harry found himself being assessed by dark eyes possessed of a concealed power. The reflected light of the lamps glimmered, flames in the depths, Harry shifted uneasily.

Harry began speaking quickly, "I do not—"

"You do not wish to bring suffering," said Saruman, his deep and melodious voice easily cutting across Harry's own. "Yet it seems suffering has been your path for many months."

Harry frowned, "How do you know about me? You have not had the chance to speak with Romestámo, nor Morinehtar in the short time we have been here."

"There are more voices in the world than those of Wizards," said Saruman with a raised brow. "More than you know; the voices of Men may lie, but the voices of birds? Beasts? The trees themselves? They are voices that cannot lie to those who would take the time to listen."

There was a silence as Harry considered Saruman's words. Perhaps some short weeks ago he would have fallen to disbelief at the pronunciation. Now, though, after his meetings with Elves and Wizards he was willing to accept that there was more to magic here than he'd known. Hadn't he always thought that he could speak to Hedwig, if only they had learned the same tongue?

"Good," said Saruman, an approving glint in his eye. "You give my words thought, I have little time for impetuous fools."

"Then, can you get me back home?" Harry asked as hope trickled into every syllable.

Another silence fell between them while Saruman considered the question. When he spoke, his words served only to dash that feeble hope that had flickered in Harry's soul. "What of my own home? If I asked, could you return me to that which I have long missed?"

Harry furrowed his brow, then he opened his mouth, and closed it again as he realised what he was being asked. "I do not know where you home is," he said, his voice low and his eyes cast down. "And you do not know where my home is."

"This is so," agreed Saruman, and Harry thought he heard a touch of sympathy creeping into his tone. "And yet you do not yet know where you are, not truly. How do you expect to find your way home when you know only your home, not the place in which you are lost?"

A tired sigh escaped as Harry lowered himself onto one of the chairs arrayed across from where Saruman sat, it was roughly made, of a dark and heavy looking wood but at least it was more comfortable than Saruman's looked. "Then what do I do? What _can_ I do?"

"There is only one that may know your route home," said Saruman, his voice now gaining a hard edge, "and he is the one who guided you are at the first."

"The Witch King," said Harry, his voice flat and his eyes dull.

"The Lord of Nazgûl," said Saruman in agreement. "And a power beyond you by far, as you well know, unless you have some weapon you feel you could wield against him."

Dark eyes flickered to Harry's sleeve, wherein he had concealed his wand for the last few days. He found himself reaching it, slowly he pulled the blackened and misshapen thing from his sleeve. Saruman's eyes fixed on it in an instant.

"That is an ugly thing you carry," he said as he stared at the wand. "I can feel its suffering, the pain that made it, even from here. You would do well to cast it aside for no good can come of it."

"Then how am I to defend myself? You said a storm is coming, how can I weather it without my only defence?" As he spoke Harry rose to his feet and paced back and forth across the room. "You sit there, so assured with your staff sitting at your side, you play at sympathy but you do not _know_ what I have suffered through. The place is not yours to command _me!"_

There was a sudden crash as the chair that Harry had been sitting upon exploded into splinters. Smoke curled around Harry's wand hand and a baleful red light issued from the charred join between the two halves.

Harry raised his hand in shock as the smoke continued to curl from the smouldering wood, the dark tendrils whispering of half-forgotten memories.

Then the smoke was blown away by a cool, fragrant breeze and with it the memories of pain faded like shadow before the light. Harry looked up to see Saruman also standing, his staff held tightly in one hand and the other held up, palm open. Harry realised that the White Wizard was whispering, and the words were faint, unrecognizable, but soothing.

Then the breeze dropped. Saruman opened his eyes, lowered his arms and everything returned to normal, except that there was now one less chair.

"I am—" began Harry, his voice faint.

"You are ruled by your fear," said Saruman, cutting off Harry's apology. "What else have you been doing but fleeing, all this time. Like a wounded animal you strike out at all around."

"I am not afraid!" said Harry all too loudly, the lie immediately clear to him.

"You are," said Saruman simply. "But fear is no crime. Only a fool has no fear."

Harry blinked. He wasn't sure how to respond.

Saruman chuckled darkly. "You think I will upbraid you for that? No, I have little time for fools. Whatever else you may be, you are no fool. It is for that reason you will heed my words now. That device which you carry can do only ill, as rage, hatred and desperation can never bring good without suffering."

For a moment Harry's grasp on his wand loosened but then he clasped it to himself, unable to release his sole link with home. It was the only thing he owned that allowed him to remember who he was, who he once had been.

"I will not ask that you surrender it for all weapons may have purpose in times of darkness; even those already born in blood." Saruman slowly sat down again and at last let go of the staff that he had still held at his side. "Sit, now, and tell me what you think is to be done, now that this road is closed to you."

In truth, Harry had given little thought to that. Instead, he had clung to the hope that aid would come to him from Saruman, and that was a hope now dashed. He pulled up another chair from one of the walls of the room and his eyes were distant as he dwelled upon the question.

"I… do not know," he eventually admitted after he sat down. "I cannot give up on my friends back home, no matter how long it may have been. I did not come here from a time of peace, it was the final battle, maybe even the final act, of a war that had claimed many lives. I need to know what happened, even if it is too late now to help."

"Good, such thought is good," said Saruman as he tapped a long finger on the table in front of him. "Had you claimed to know then I would not be able to help you. There is only one route for you now, if you wish to attempt to return. You know this."

"I need to find the Witch King."

"That is the very easiest portion of your task, the firmest road, and with the easiest footing. But it will not get you to your desired destination," said Saruman as he shook his head. "You must not only find him, but you must also find some way to have him undo his own work. If his own work this is."

Harry sagged in his seat, the impossibility of the task weighing heavily upon him. "And that is something I cannot do." He shook his head and looked across at Saruman. "Could you?"

"Never have I met the Lord of the Nazgûl, nor even pitched myself against one of his brothers in anything but wits, but it may be within my power to best him," said Saruman. "Know, though, that I cannot do what you would ask. With every day more dark creatures flock to Ub-khûn from the fall of Angmar in the West, the short-sighted lords and kings of the west may have won their petty war, but they have thought not about the ramifications to those lands beyond their sight. My presence is needed here, as I think you know."

"I… understand," said Harry before lapsing into silence. Far distant, it was as if he could hear the thunder of another door closing; another path forever closed.

"Aid you I will, though," said Saruman from across the book-strewn desk. Harry looked up in surprise. Saruman cast his arm wide in an expansive gesture that encompassed all of the many books that lined the walls of what Harry thought of as his office. "What knowledge I can give, I will, and what guidance you need, I will give."

It wasn't what Harry had hoped for, but it was better than nothing. Even the smallest step closer to home was a step nonetheless and Harry welcomed any progress, however insignificant.

"Thank you," he said earnestly, he paused for a moment before speaking again. "Do you _have_ any guidance?"

Before Saruman could answer, though, their counsel was interrupted by a heavy rap on the door. Saruman called for them to enter.

"Lastûn!" began the Dwarf that huffed into the room, heedless of Harry's presence. "Ginnar uzbad taziri azu aryât."

Saruman rolled his eyes, though the action was barely visible in the half light. "Jalegelmâ uzbad tada e salibu." he said testily.

"Natahifmi e astu altân," said the Dwarf as he stepped back, hands raised, palms open. "Galabi nekha bi id-nud tada id-uslukhul tashfati duzlumul."

"Very well," said Saruman, now in the Westron tongue that Harry was familiar with, Saruman pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tell him I shall be along shortly, but that were-worms are the least of his concerns."

"E—, it shall be done." The Dwarf made an immediate and grateful exit.

Saruman lifted himself quickly to his feet and snatched up his staff in a single smooth motion. "Come, then, Harry. The proper introductions should be made, even if you should choose to move on as soon as you may."

"I did not understand," said Harry as he rose to follow the elder Wizard. "Of what did the Dwarf speak?"

Saruman stopped at the door to his study and glanced back, his countenance older than Harry had yet seen it. "Were-worms," he said, his voice deeper than usual, and in tones that spoke to Harry of great death and past calamity, like a great poet of myth about to recount the most terrible of tragedies. "King Ginnar has a great fear of them, perhaps not wrongly for both his father and grandfather were killed by one of that breed."

"Were-worms?" Harry asked as Saruman again began walking and they stepped back upon the path back towards the King's throne.

"Ancient creatures of Morgoth's design, or sired by those that were," said Saruman as he strode quickly through the still muttering crowds of Dwarves. "Children of Glaurung, or Draugluin, or the bastard offspring of both, perhaps. Nigh forgotten now in the West but they have long haunted the Easternmost Desert."

"I am sorry, but I do not understand, I have no knowledge of the histories and these names mean nothing to me," Harry said as he quickened his pace to match the long sweeping strides of Saruman.

"And there is little time for me to teach you now!" said Saruman, his voice cracking like a whip. "Learn, you may, in time but now just know that Ginnar is liable to send every armed Dwarf on a fruitless hunt should he be left to his own devices. He is no ill ruler, but in this his fear masters him."

"Lastûn, you are here," said King Ginnar gratefully as they approached. "And the traveller is still with you. I will let the messenger speak his piece again." He sent a commanding look towards the nervous looking Dwarf stood alone before his throne and the centre of attention of all nearby Dwarves and Wizards.

He held in his hands what looked like little better than a dirtied rag, but as the corners were crushed in the fists of the messenger Dwarf Harry noticed some dark markings on one side which may have been writing. The Dwarf's dark and heavy-lidded eyes flickered around the room before he spoke. "The desert-men have been moving west in recent months, so says Finn of Stonefoots. Word among them talks of the great rock-worms taking many to their death, and following those who flee into the West."

As the Dwarf spoke Ginnar held his gaze steady upon Saruman and it grew slowly more grim. "As Mahal would speak it, these Men will lead the were-worms to our very halls, as they did before."

"And if they did they would find the impenetrable stone of Aradi-unâ, the unbreakable doors of the Fikhîb-Izrên and the ever-sharp axes of the Zirinmazân waiting to greet them," said Saruman with such confidence that Ginnar's worried peering eyes slackened and he leaned back in his throne. Saruman continued, "Hear me, though, for they will not come so far as this mountain, and all here know it."

Dwarves all around the room, many who had moments ago borne worried or angry expressions, nodded in agreement with Saruman for his voice communicated such certainty that none would think to raise their voice in disagreement.

"The Refeshamalu cannot survive beyond the borders of their desert and they will not step beyond it into the uplands east of the Mountains. So too will the were-worms be stymied, if indeed their coming is true."

Harry looked about in wonder and he wondered how the Dwarves could even worry in the first place. Surely they knew all that Saruman knew of the history of the were-worm migrations? It was surely as Saruman had said, there could be no true cause for concern.

"You are right, of course, Lastûn," said King Ginnar now looking much more at ease. "It should have been clear. It was not here that my father and grand-father died in the maw of a were-worm, but in the eastern holds of the 'Abanbasân."

"Indeed, Ginnar," said Saruman as he smiled what appeared to be a transparently pleasant smile to Harry's eyes, even if something about it felt slightly off in the play of his heavy brows. "Now, it is time you properly greeted your new guest, he is likely to remain here for some time."

"Of course," said Ginnar quickly before turning his attention to Harry. "Uddadad has already spoken well of you and I happily welcome you to Ironhaunt."

o-o

"Look about you, Harry, and tell me what it is you see."

Harry's eyes were wide as he looked upon a great cavern hewn in the living stone of the mountain. The walls were much rougher than those of the upper halls but it was the scale that left him bereft of words.

The far wall of the cavern could not be seen, obscured by the thin mist that rose from the myriad plants and filled the space. Hundreds, thousands, more, platforms and plateaus were scattered across the cavern and the high walls were studded with broad jutting platforms of solid rock. Upon every platform was a garden, a copse, or tiny croft filled with impossible greenery. Shafts of light descended from the high ceiling; pillars from the heavens holding aloft the stone of the mountain and providing life to the myriad of plants being tended within the cavern.

Dwarves by their hundreds attended to the oasis of verdure among the cold stone of the mountain. As Harry watched a small group, far distant, was felling one of the copses of trees, their shouts carried across the great grotto clearly, though their words were unrecognisable.

Streams criss crossed the cavern and descended from waterfalls both short and lofty and filled the space with the music of pure mountain streams. A few Dwarf children with thin whispy beards of every colour played among the plant menagerie and the streams, and in places other Dwarves simply relaxed in the serene air and sound of nature, hidden from the world above.

Harry struggled to find words to describe it all, for none seemed to offer it justice. "Gardens," he said at last and upon giving up in his search for fitting words.

"You look upon the Gardens of Sakdîth Bazzun, one of the great wonders of Middle earth," said Saruman as he looked out over the gardens, a smile playing upon his features. "Where the Argonath are monuments to pride this is a monument to all who would tend it. It is the life of the mountain, and it is why Ub-khûn can never take this place while one Dwarf of the Zirinmazân draws breath. No siege may fell this city; no army may force entrance by the Gates of Fikhîb-Izrên. You are safe here, should you choose to stay."

"I—" Harry grimaced, once again his reason and desire for home warred across his conscience. "For a short time, at least," he allowed. "If my only path home is to be through the Witch King when it is the path for which I must prepare, and I will need _much_ preparation."

"It is a fool's endeavour," said Saruman, and he nodded gently. "But there is more to you than any mere fool. Perhaps you will find what it is you seek."

It was an uncomfortable thought for Harry knew his words to be true. He had seen the terrible power of the Witch King up close, he had looked upon the Lord of the Nazgûl in his unseen flesh and terrible glory. His was a terror known by all Men, the fear of the eternal void of death and Harry knew that if he should ever return home he would have a new Boggart.

The greatest of powers Harry had known did not compare to the power of the Witch King, all of Dumbledore's strength would have been like a guttering candle in the dark of a storm; destined to be doused and consumed. Voldemort himself would pale into insignificance beside him.

If he was to stand even the meanest of chances he would need to strengthen himself, in body and in mind, and he would need to be prepared for even the blackest of sorcery.

o-o

He'd failed to consider, when Saruman had offered him access to the books of his library, that he would be unable to read the many scripts of Middle-earth.

It had been Romestámo who had presented the solution, in the person of Suthri, a young Dwarf scribe who was still learning his trade, but who possessed an impressive capability with the myriad languages which Harry found were assaulting him.

So, shortly before leaving again with Morinehtar, this time to roam East to investigate the rumours of Were-worm migrations, Romestámo had introduced Harry to the stocky, brown-haired Dwarf.

It seemed each was written in its own tongue, with subtly different script. Many of the books held pages heavy with the language of the Dwarves, which Suthri was happy to read to him, but which he had so far refused to teach. The Angerthas runes were completely illegible to Harry, Suthri was able to walk him through the important aspects of many of the books.

Then there were a number of books in the Elvish tongues. Of these, most were in similar runes to the Khuzdul books, though Suthri insisted the script was different. A few were in a lighter, more flowing script that seemed to Harry to suit the sounds of the language far better but that Suthri could not yet read.

Then there were the books in the myriad languages of Men: Adûnaic, Gethoede, Westron, Tor'hiska and others from even further afield, some in scripts of their own, others in the Elvish Tengwar script and still more in some variant of Angerthas.

It had left Harry's mind spinning when he'd begun the process, he hadn't even known where to start.

It had been nearly a month since Harry had stepped into the Halls of Ironhaunt and he was now able to make a reasonable attempt at understanding the scripts of Westron and Gethoede. Gethoede was rather simple, as the language didn't have any native script at all, instead the sounds had been mapped to those of Westron; with a little learning of the sounds Harry was able to read and understand with relative ease, even if it did mean he had to repeat the words under his breath like Dudley did when he read.

His attention was broken when his door rattled under the rushed knocking of someone outside.

"Come in," Harry called, as he focused back on the book he was slowly picking his way through.

The door swung open immediately and Buri huffed into the room, his beard askew. "A Black Messenger is come," he said as he tried to smooth the wayward hairs of his rich beard. "Saruman has asked that you be present, in the throne room when he is received."

Harry looked up from the book, a rather dry mythology of the Elvish creation myth called the Valaquenta, and focused on Buri. "Apologies, could you repeat that?"

"A messenger has been sent to King Ginnar from Ub-khûn and he has demanded to be seen. Saruman wishes that you be present for the meeting."

Harry frowned. "Why me?" He had spent much of his time detached from the Dwarves of Ironhaunt in his search for knowledge.

"I do not know," admitted Buri. "But the White Wizard was most insistent that you join the King's counsel."

"Very well," Harry sighed as he rose slowly from his chair. He rubbed at his eyes when he realised how blurry they had become after long hours of reading in the flickering light of the oil lamps.

Harry had been granted a small chamber, with a bed, a desk and a squat bookshelf. The bed was not the most comfortable that Harry had ever known, it was scarcely better than the aged and broken bed he'd had at the Dursleys, but compared to the cold bloody stones of an Angmar cell it was a luxury. His walls were adorned with tapestries and hangings of many colours and designs. Beside his desk a mirror was hung, a dark sheet draped over it so that Harry did not have to look upon himself and be reminded of his recent past.

His desk was of the simplest design available to the Dwarves, but it was still a thing of beautiful craftsmanship. Different shades of iron and other metals swam across its surface in a carefully martialled kaleidoscope. With so much metal, as there was everywhere in Ironhaunt, he was glad of the heating afforded to the living spaces by the great forges that burned fiercely through every day and night. Even in bare feet, the stone of the floor was warm to the touch.

He made his way through the many winding corridors of Ironhaunt's living spaces where many of the thousands of Dwarves lived out their lives.

"How is Onar getting on with his apprenticeship?" he asked his companion as they trecked through the many long halls.

"He complains still of the bruises, burns and callouses," said Buri enthusiastically, "and his strength is still wanting for the real smithing work but he is showing great promise with his finer work. He brought home a necklace of glass iron for his mother and it is a fine piece indeed. He says he at last understands what it means to listen to the metal, though it will be long years before he may put it into practice."

Harry nodded, a small smile on his face as he allowed the normality of daily life among the Dwarves to wash over him. "It is good that he is finding his place quickly."

Certainly it was proving easier than it was for Harry. Though the Dwarves were welcoming and accommodating in everything it was still always clear that Harry would remain an outsider from the ways of the Dwarves. In their eyes he was a Wizard, and not to be lightly engaged.

Buri nodded and scratched at his nose. "We always knew his wits were quick," he said proudly. "He got them from me, of course."

"Ha!" Harry barked at the Dwarf's unexpected joke. "I don't know if _that_ sounds right. Would Hlíf have something to say on that, I wonder?"

"No doubt she would," said Buri with a chuckle, "but she is not here, and so mine is the final word in this matter."

Harry shook his head and smiled, loneliness forgotten. They walked a short time more before at last coming to the Ginnar's throne room, the Dumu Zirin-Aklum. As was always the case the great Hall was thronged with many Dwarves, each sporting their finest clothing and with their beard waxed into impossibly intricate shapes. This time, though, the hall was unusually quiet and the ever present Dwarvish susurration had been silenced. A shadow hung over the minds of those present.

Then it passed, for Saruman came into view and his purest white garb drove away the dark mood of all who laid eyes upon him. He stood at the side of Ginnar's throne, tall and powerful, much more the King than the Dwarf upon the crown seat of Zirin-yâdu.

Before the throne stood another man, tall and wearing clothes of dark leather and mail. Not so tall as Saruman, nor as imposing, but among the sea of Dwarves he stood like a dark island beset by storms.

"Yet another Wizard," said the dark messenger as he espied Harry's approach. "Is the Lord of Zirin-yâdu so dependent on the _wisdom_ of old men and broken Men that he must hoard every useless advisor he may find?"

"Quiet your tongue," said Saruman firmly and the man's snapped shut with an audible click. "Yours is an honour to stand here before the King of Zirinmazân. It has been many years since a messenger of Ub-khûn was allowed to pass the Mekhem Fikhîb-Izrên, receive that honour with the same grace as it was given."

"Of course, Great Wizard," said the messenger as he bowed much lower than was needed. "Perhaps I forget my manners. Now are all here at last? Perhaps there are some yet in Ironhaunt who could yet be found and brought hither."

"There are people enough to hear you," said Ginnar with an edge of fire in his tone. "Now speak your piece before my patience, and that of my court, comes to its ever nearer end."

There was a rumble of agreement from the Dwarves around the room and Saruman acknowledged Ginnar's words with a subtle glance.

"I bear glad news," said the messenger in his deep and cracked voice. "For the Lord of Ub-khûn presents to you an opportunity."

He paused for a long moment, an unpleasant smile marring his pale visage. At last Saruman moved to prompt that he continue, "Speak it then, and be done."

"In his eternal wisdom and glory he offers you the chance to save your people, and to return something which was lost."

Muttering spread out across the floor and Harry could hear the words of the nearest Dwarves. "The Ring," they said, "the Ring!"

"And what would Khamûl wish of us for this _grand_ gift?" asked Saruman with a sneer.

"Of _you?_ Nothing. Of the great King Ginnar he asks only that trade be re-opened, that the armies of Ironhaunt join with those of Ub-khûn in putting down the troublesome tribes of Rhûn, who have long menaced trade into the West. He also asks that you reconsider your choice in allies—" dark eyes flicker to Saruman, then to Harry "—but he makes no demands in this."

Despite the import of the discussion, Harry could not restrain the snort of dark amusement that escaped him.

"You have something which you would wish to say?" the messenger said harshly and a Man who had endured less than Harry might have balked at the tone.

"I think you have said all that needs said already," said Harry, his gaze firm before the dark eyes of the messenger. He had seen much worse than they. In the darkest moments of his imprisonment in Carn Dûm he had even seen worse in his own features. "I think everyone here has heard that you have said, and also what you have been at pains to avoid."

"You find yourselves weakened and in need of quality weapons, steel and other craft. Your fruitless war against the tribes of Rhûn and your weak attempts to stamp out the embers of freedom that threaten even now to burst into new flame has bled your armies. You come here brought to your knees by 'mere' tribesmen, yet you are too proud, too fearful to kneel. You know, as do we, what you would do to any who came before you as beggars and you fear that it is what will await you here."

Whispers and nods spread out through the crowd of gathered Dwarves again and Harry could see the beginnings of a smile beneath Saruman's thick black beard. Harry continued.

"Despite that you would seek to command, to lead, to be seen as the greater when all here see only a nation brought low by greed, fear and warmongering. I think we all know the reception you deserve, and the reception you will receive."

"Darjûn speaks the truth," said Ginnar after the murmuring of the Dwarves again dwindled to near silence. "And his words speak my own better than I may. You sent your dogs, wild-men and dark creatures against my own people for decades and now you come to us for aid? You would tempt us with trinkets, replicas of treasure long lost? And know that that is the truth," he said before the messenger could interrupt. "For I saw that one of the seven burn in the maw of a were-worm; it is a day I will never forget, even should I outlive the days of Durin himself."

King Ginnar pushed himself to his feet as his anger seethed beneath the surface. "The stones beneath your feet are attainted and will have to be replaced anew from the heart of the mountain. Go, now, before the safety of the messenger wears as thin as my patience."

"This slight will not go unanswered," said the messenger as heavily armed Dwarves closed in to remove him from the mountain city. "The Lord of Ub-khûn is great, and he follows a master greater still. In time these halls will be nothing but the breeding grounds of spiders and rats."

King Ginnar did not respond but instead sat back down heavily and cradled his head in his large hands. Harry had seldom seen anyone look so young, and yet so old.

o-o

"God _damn_ it!" Harry cried as the mixture he'd been working on for the last three days once again sputtered sadly in his cauldron, the power leeching out of the mixture like heat from a body in the snow.

"What is it you believe you are doing?" asked Saruman from the doorway of the small cell Harry had been granted by King Ginnar.

"A potion for my teeth," said Harry distantly as he thought back over the ingredients he'd used. A pale milky root for strength and purity. A mushroom with an unbecoming resemblance to teeth, holly berries and more. All with relationships to teeth, strength or growth and yet none came together into the mixture he'd hoped to achieve.

He had returned to his potion making attempts at length after every attempt to wield his wand for anything but blood and suffering had come to an impasse. At least in potions he had control of the magic. His wand, such as it was, was more like a wild beast, untamed, injured and afraid it struck out at every opportunity. He had even been forced to lay it aside for the fearful way of thinking crept upon him as he carried it. His attempts at more complex potions, though, had left much to be desired.

Saruman walked over and sniffed at the mixture with his long nose before crouching low above it. Harry heard the Wizard whisper quietly, and he swirled the scalding potion with a single unprotected finger.

"I do not know of the craft that you practice, and your explanation to Morinehtar suggests a lack within you too," said Saruman thoughtfully. "But if I were to offer a guess I would say that you have missed something, some core and centre to the whole concoction."

Harry run a hand through his hair, now near shoulder length, and sighed. "That much is clear, but without knowing what it is that is missing I cannot hope to rectify it."

"I believe you know what it is that you are missing, but perhaps you hide from it," said Saruman as he looked away and inspected Harry's room unnecessarily for it had not changed overly in the month's Harry had been living in it. "You still have not uncovered your mirror, I note."

Harry glanced momentarily at the dusty sheet before returning to the more important matter of his potion. "If you have come only to comment again on my choice of decoration then I would ask that you leave me to my toil. I have tired of this ever present reminder of my curse. Only when I am free will I uncover the mirror."

"Then it may be that you will never come to uncover it," said Saruman flatly before sweeping again from the room.

Harry glanced again at his covered mirror before his gaze settled upon his set-aside wand laying upon his desk. Perhaps there was yet a way forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most Dwarvish names from again from the Völuspá but one or two are from other Old Norse sources. The Dwarvish language is from DwarrowScholar and a few helpers are below:
> 
> Lastûn - Cunning (Skillful) Man (Saruman)  
> Were-worms - A single throwaway mention in canon (from a Hobbit no less, so they may be mythical). However, 'worm' is a normal-ish term for Dragon with the Legendarium so were-worms are, within this story, somewhat smaller, but more intelligent dragon-like beings (were-wolves are also a thing in Tolkien, but do no transform, they are simply uncommonly smart).  
> Zirinmazân - Ironfists  
> Zirinmazn - Ironfist  
> Sakdîth Bazzun - Gardens of birthing shadows. Worth pointing out that Gardens of Sakdîth Bazzun is a tautology. But this is modelled on the 'Chamber of Mazarbul' which is thought to mean Chamber of Place of Records (Mazarb being records, Mazarbul being place of records).  
> The Argonath are the statues of Anárion and Isildur past which the Fellowship row in their boats.  
> 'Abanbasân - Stonefoots (another clan of Dwarves)  
> Dumu Zirin-Aklum - Hall of Ironcrown  
> Darjûn - Stranger-Man  
> The Dwarvish exchange between Saruman and the unnamed Dwarf should be reasonably clear from context. Ginnar asked for Saruman's presence when he heard about news of were-worms in the east. Saruman has loath to leave his discussion with Harry. I should point out that Dwarves do not have an explicit problem with speaking their language around non-Dwarves, as some people believe, it is only their inner names that are never communicated outside of their race. However, they do usually use Mannish languages when any Men are near as the Dwarvish tongue proved extremely difficult for Men to learn. In this case the Dwarf is rather shaken, and Saruman doesn't have the same deference.


	11. Until At Last the Light Kindled Anew

"You see, the stone _wishes_ to be cut, to bear what burden it can. Formed at the beginning of all things its purpose is to hold up the world, the very bones of the earth. Men may simply pile stone upon stone and that gets the job done, more often than not, but a true Dwarvish mason can make the stone sing with a silent voice."

Harry sat in the untidy workshop of Lofar, the Master Mason of Ironhaunt. His eyes followed the the motions of the gray-haired Lofar and he listened with rapt attention as the Mason described some little of what he had learned in long years at his craft.

"There is a life in stone, as in all things, and it wishes to be part of something great, as all do," Lofar continued in his quiet, breathy voice. "A stone formed and shaped with care and appreciation, then placed into a great pillar within the tallest Hall of Ironhaunt will be stronger than any soulless brick made by Men."

"How is that possible?" asked Harry when Lofar returned to his careful chiselling of the milky white stone before him. Small clouds of dust rose from where the chisel smote the stone. "Surely stone is stone?"

"Stone is stone, this is true," accepted gnarled old Mason. "But a Dwarf is a Dwarf, and Man is Man yet you would not say that all Men, or Dwarves, are the same. Some among us are stronger, some wiser, some the greater craftsmen. Each is formed by experience and their home, their kin, into the Man or Dwarf they are. Should you wish to create a great Hall of Kings then you would not ask the Warrior to build it, would you? Each stone has a purpose, a place, and a meaning that escapes most Men."

Harry sat quietly for a time in the corner of the old Mason's workshop. There was something in his craftsmanship that spoke to Harry on a level he did not quite understand. The intensity, and the ability to see something invisible to anyone felt familiar to Harry, like he'd seen it before somewhere else, a world away.

He had found Lofar's workshop a few weeks previously as he had been walking the many halls of Ironhaunt lost in thought and reminiscence. He had found himself without much purpose since his coming to Ironhaunt. Though the Lord of Ub-khûn had marched upon some of the minor holds and quarries to the east of Ironhaunt the forces of the Dwarves, under the guidance of Saruman, had been more than a match for them. Never had Ironhaunt been threatened, and none had sought to call for Harry to aid them. It was for the best, for there was little aid he _could_ give in his weakness, and his nature would not have allowed him to flee from such a request had it been made in earnest.

Perhaps it would have gone otherwise, had the plains of Rhûn not chewed up every army sent there in Khamûl's wrath, no battles had been fought and yet crows and vultures surely feasted upon those who had died upon the winter plains of Rhûn.

The rhythmic tapping and clanking sound of the workshop filtered through Harry's senses, and soothed his nerves, though he could not have explained why. It was akin to listening to the rain outside on a winter's day while he sat warm before the fire in the Gryffindor common room. More than that, though, Old Lofar was always interesting to listen to as he told old legends of the first origins of the Dwarves and other tales perhaps even older.

It was a large chamber with high, rough-cut ceiling. It was no great Hall like the great entry-way or the Dumu Zirin-Aklum where King Ginnar made his throne, it was a place of workmen and every feature spoke of a craftsman's eye for pragmatic design. The benches were made of worn wood; dark, heavy and deeply scored by the stones and varied tools that had come and gone across their surfaces. The room was lit by many oil lamps and two whole walls had been given to sturdy shelves upon which many fine examples of stonework rested. Milky white stones sat next to brooding black, each carved with such precision that they looked more like they'd been carefully grown in some strange garden rather than sculpted from formless rock.

At a few of the benches Lofar's apprentices worked. Some were young Dwarves, barely twenty years old and others were much older. Harry had not yet gained the eye to really differentiate between Dwarves based on their age, but the shorter beards of those younger ones was always a clear indication; the long waxed creations of the elder Dwarves was similarly telling.

"Is that true for other materials?" Harry asked after enjoying the busy hush for a few minutes.

The old Dwarf looked up from his work for a moment and shrugged. "Perhaps. But I do not have the experience to say. You would be best asking a smith that, my boy."

Harry wondered if perhaps it was true for all things. Perhaps that was what he'd been missing in his potion-craft, the personal touch. "So, what is it you look for that tells you what a stone is best suited to?"

The rhythmic tapping stopped once again and Lofar straightened up, a frown over his features. "Now, that is a question I've never been called upon to answer," he admitted as he leaned back against the stone he'd been working on. "I haven't thought on such things since I was a journeyman. It would be like trying to explain the feeling of air on my skin, or the taste of water upon my tongue. It just is. As you may recognise the brave or the cowardly by the sight of them alone, by the light in their eyes or the set of their stance, so too can I see the same in any stone brought before me."

Lofar turned a calculating eye towards the white stone he's been working on and tipped his head to the side. "When I look at this I see the pure white of the limestone; it lends the stone purpose, but makes it fragile, hard but prone to shatter in stress. I see the unbroken seam of quartz that runs through it like a back-bone; strong if used well, but a source of weakness if ignored, and beautiful if coaxed to the surface. There are tiny darker flecks deeper within the stone, small creatures from ages past locked in time; a temperament well suited to detail and intricate carvings. Then I also know where this stone came from, within the core of an ancient stalagmite in one of the deepest caves of these mountains; it is a living stone, the heart of something that once grew and so it yearns to be again."

He looked back at Harry and he caressed the stone with his free hand, sending up another small cloud of pale white powder, he rubbed the fine talc between his fingers thoughtfully. "And so it will become a grand keystone, there is much work yet to be done but it will be the most integral and more intricate part of the entry-arch of the new halls being opened up below the twenty-third level."

Lofar returned to his work then, and Harry did not question him further. Instead, Harry thought upon the words and thoughts that the old craftsman had spoken.

It was, in its own way, a little like the lessons Uda had tried to teach him, months ago when he'd been travelling with the Rethlapa. After spending much time deep in thought surrounded by the comforting industriousness of the workshop, he bid Lofar an absent-minded farewell and drifted through the corridors of Ironhaunt in the direction of his room.

He tried to remember Uda's words. He hadn't thought of them much since he'd left the Rethlapa, they had seemed a wisdom for which he had little need. He had still been clinging to the hope that he'd be able to return home quickly. It was now clear that that was a fool's hope.

She had said that things were unimportant; that it was people who truly decided the importance of things. Yet here was Lofar saying something that was almost the exact opposite; that even rock had a personality of sorts, and that all he was doing was seeing through to that when he formed the stone.

He paused in his wandering, and he heard an annoyed grumble from a Dwarf who'd been walking behind him and been caught unawares by his sudden halt. Harry ignored him and turned around, his new destination was another one that had become familiar to him.

The Sakdîth Bazzun had become another home away from home. The huge chamber was filled with the quiet sounds of life; the faint rustle of trees, the subtle buzzing of insects and the distant bubble of streams. It reminded Harry just a little of the times at Hogwarts when he and Hermione and Ron would sit upon the banks of the Lake and talk about childish nothings.

It helped him think. Sometimes, if he listened very carefully, he could even hear Hermione's suggestions and Ron's joking quips, nearly lost against the busy hush of nature.

He sat beside one of the streams that criss-crossed the cavern and trailed one hand through the water, and his eyes looked out sightlessly across the gardens of Ironhaunt.

There was something in Lofar's words that rang true, yet still what Uda had said to him of her view of things seemed to him to be just as truthful. Was it Lofar's _impression_ of the stone that gave it its personality? He felt that was what Uda would have said. Or was Lofar really seeing the truth of things, that a personality existed within even rock and that only an old stonemason like Lofar was able to read it?

He remembered who Lofar had reminded him of in that moment as he had lovingly caressed the stone and explained its origins. Ollivander had had the ability to see more in his wands than Harry had ever thought possible; he had been able to see not just personality but emotion. He had listened to the wands and heard their voice, the lightest of caresses had told him their mood. He could even read some vague impression of the future in the matching of a wand and a wizard.

Harry lay back upon the sandy shore of the stream and looked upwards at the streams of light cascading through the mirrored skylights above. Great tunnels through the stone to the sky above, lined with silvered steel and iron to channel the light towards the Gardens.

He did not doubt that there _was_ something more than met the eye in a wand, some magic that could masquerade as life in the right circumstances. He smiled briefly as he remembered Mr. Weasleys old Ford Anglia and the seeming sentience gifted it by the combined magic of the charms that had granted it flight and so many other things.

A wand was magical, so having some semblance of a personality shouldn't be of any surprise, really. But what of a stone? What of the plants, the earth, even the air he breathed? Could those be granted the same qualities, even in the absence of magic?

There had been a constricting evil to all things in Carn Dûm. Even after his release the leaden sky had turned over a land thick with suffering and pain. It was hard to imagine that such things could _not_ have an effect on the earth or the air of such a place.

The great wood into which he had briefly ventured in the early days of his travels had contained a seething malice. The very trees themselves had seemed to reach towards the sky, the sun, in the hope of snuffing it out and of plunging the earth below into an eternal dusk.

And the woods of the Elves had held a sorrow and a beauty beyond anything he'd known. Merely sitting out at night and gazing up at the stars had left him touched by the exquisite melancholy, a wistfulness shared in by those Elves who lived there. In truth, Harry could not work out which had come first. Had the long years of loss and woe brought the Elves to the very precipice of despair, and so too brought low their home or had their home felt each loss as keenly as any Man might? Could a place really have that kind of connection with the people who inhabited it?

He remembered other places: Hogwarts, the Burrow, Grimmauld Place, even Privet Drive. Some had delighted in being full, while others had railed against it. There was no doubt in his mind that it had been Grimmauld Place that had imposed such dark thoughts upon those who'd been forced to stay there; for how could it not? How many centuries had it been the home of the Black family, so joyless and arrogant? For how long had that seeped into the very bricks and mortar of the building?

Hogwarts had been built for children, and to the soul purpose of learning. The love of it, and the love of childish curiosity was as old as the castle itself. Surely it had been the founders themselves that had instilled that into its very fabric. Or perhaps they were merely a part of the whole. Experience was, after-all, as much formation as was creation.

He sat up again and found himself gazing blindly into the ever-shifting waters. Then what of his own creations, what would he instill within them?

Fear, self-loathing, weakness. Rage. The weight of the wand at his wrist seemed to increase and he pulled it out. Dark red and brown and black, all colours he did not doubt would fit him now.

Perhaps Lofar was right, and Uda too. Objects did have a personality imbued within them by the manner of their creation and the wear imposed upon them across their existence. The wand he'd made would surely have disgusted Ollivander for far more reasons than the crude attempt at craftsmanship. He would have been able to see Harry at his lowest in the wood, and he would have been able to hear his distant tortured screams in its voice. He would have felt the scars that covered Harry's body as he touched the wood.

Slowly, Harry held his wand between his two hands and stared at it. He'd said to Saruman that he wouldn't look in the mirror until his wounds were healed but looking at his wand was little different, he realised. They were born of the same suffering, the same need, and the same dread. His own blood gave it power and it remembered all the times it had been spilled. Saruman had been right in his assessment of the wand.

How stupid had he been? How blinded by desperation and hubris? Ollivander would surely have told him that a wand was no mere tool, indeed Harry himself had known it, once. He could remember the feeling when he'd first grasped his holly wand, the unshakeable knowledge that he had found some part of himself long lost. A wand was not a hammer, or any other implement. It had chosen him, and if he was to create any wand that would be useful he must listen to the old wandcrafter's words. The wand chooses the Wizard, and that choice cannot be rushed.

In a moment he grasped the wood and heaved, it snapped easily and with the brittle crack of dead wood. He dropped the two halves into the stream and watched as they flowed away.

His eyes refocused on the smooth waters of the stream and he saw there his reflection, blurred by the imperfect surface. In that face, faded and obscured, he could almost believe he saw himself whole again.

o-o

Romestámo stroked his beard thoughtfully as he looked at Harry. Harry and he were sitting outside the upper gates of Ironhaunt, looking out over the woods to the south-west. The sun descended slowly below the distant horizon and shades of red and orange spilled across all the land before them. Summer was coming again to Middle-earth after a long and cold winter.

"Perhaps in your deep research of Saruman's lore you have read of the Elvish legend of the Music?" he asked at last, his dark eyes bright as he considered Harry's words. "Their myth describing the creation of the world and all things within it?"

It was vaguely familiar to Harry but he could not place the memory. He shook his head, and the pleased light faded just slightly from Romestámo's eyes in disappointment. "It is a long tale," Romestámo said. "And not one you should be told by me, it is something you should experience for yourself. But there is perhaps something of that tale in what you say; a fire that burns in the heart of all things, but which is that much brighter in the heart that beats the tune of life."

"So you say I am right in my thoughts?" Harry said, a rare broad and triumphant smile spreading across his features.

Romestámo waved his hands quellingly, "I can say no such thing, as you know, for it is not for me to pass on such secrets to the minds of mortals. But there is perhaps something in them, an aspect, perhaps, of the truth of which the myth of the Music is but another."

Harry's smile faded only slightly, "So you say that I have some part of the truth, an edge or a corner, but I have not yet seen it in full."

Romestámo laughed suddenly and joyously. "I had forgotten how clear-sighted you could be when talking of the nature of things," he admitted. "You must present Saruman with an unusual challenge in your conversations."

"In truth we talk rarely," Harry admitted. "He is often busy in council with King Ginnar or the Lords of the lesser holds and when he comes to me to speak I fear that I do little more than bore him. He offers few words that are of real use, in any case; all riddles, smoke and mirrors."

"Saruman sees much and hears more," said Romestámo as he ran worn fingers through his heavy beard. "I have a love of words, as you may have noticed, but Saruman is a little different. He sees to the core of things much clearer than I, or even Morinehtar. I would not doubt that he knows what you wish to say before you have finished offering him greeting."

"It seems a lonely life," Harry said suddenly. "Sorry, I do not know where that came from."

"Do not apologise," said Romestámo as he leaned across to pat Harry on the shoulder. "Do I fear it is only the truth you speak. Even among our order, Saruman is Wise, the solitude of responsibility is a great burden to bear. I am glad I have Morinehtar, and he me, it is too easy to lose your way when you walk a path alone."

Romestámo shook his head, as if to drive such thoughts away, and stood and the deepening gloom. "But listen to me, an old man's fears I think. Of all of us, it was Saruman who was best suited to our task for he knows the designs of the Enemy better than any other could hope. Worry not for him, my boy, instead worry for yourself and do not forget the goal which you set yourself."

"I fear that as the days and months pass me by that my goal becomes ever more distant, " Harry admitted as he pushed himself to his feet and they both began walking towards the narrow door from which they'd come.

"That is because you look always to the past," said Romestámo as he led the way through the high tunnels of Ironhaunt. "Even when looking forward you see only a past that is older than it is now. When you think on your quest you do not see only how far you have come, not how far you have yet to travel. If you did, I think you would find yourself closer than you were when first I met you."

"It eases my mind to hear you say that," Harry said quietly. "Even if I am not sure I am ready to believe it."

"Then prove it," said Romestámo firmly. "Apply what you have learned in the last months to your craft, fix that which you have so long desired to fix. I think you now have the understanding to do so, if you but take the time that it will require."

o-o

Harry stared steadily at the potion before him. It was a strange concoction; one he never would have thought possible. Another winter had come and gone, and the new summer even now waned towards autumn. He had lost count of the ingredients he had added, and the steps he had taken in their preparation.

The effort had surely been worth it though. He could feel the nature of the potion before him as surely as Lofar could sense the nature of a stone; Uda, a Man; or Ollivander, a wand.

He smiled, and it was a true smile, for he knew that it would be the last smile that would display his suffering openly to the world.

Saruman sat in the room, his gaze sharp as he leaned heavily upon his dark staff. He had not spoken for some time, but Harry could sense the naked interest and even excitement in seeing the fruition of Harry's labours.

For Harry's labours had been long indeed. It was a potion unlike any he had before created or even read of during his time at Hogwarts.

While he had been able to find a great number of possible ingredients within the subterranean gardens of Ironhaunt he had soon found them to be much too singular in essence; each had been cultivated in the same place and in the same conditions and so even though they had different qualities due to the nature of their species their individual 'personalities', such as they were, were too similar to work with. That had, perhaps, been one of the problems he'd encountered with his last such attempt so many months ago.

So he had looked further afield. Romestámo and Morinehtar had brought him a few items which he had assayed for some time before incorporating but a few into his final brew. The true prize, though, had been a single tooth from a fire-drake of the north which Harry had immediately seized upon. He had sensed in it power and majesty long lost, something that was achingly familiar.

The strangeness of the potion came from the last set of ingredients, though. He had taken to spending even more time in Lofar's workshop and had questioned the Dwarf and his apprentices on every little thing. He had collected a few offcuts, some dust and even one or two discarded experiments and they had found their way into the potion.

Harry would be hard pressed to explain his thought process to anyone who asked. Much like Lofar found it hard to explain what he saw in the stones he worked on from morning until evening. There had been few words involved in his thoughts, instead it had been more like impression and emotion given voice within his mind. Each ingredient spoke to him in a language he could not fathom which nonetheless gifted him an understanding of the meaning, like a parent interpreting the babblings of a child. Each item had brought some new aspect to the potion though he might not know now what it was, and now that all had at last been taken together there was but one final thing to do.

Harry met Saruman's eyes one final time. "Well, I think I have delayed enough. It is time at last," he said with a grin, then he threw his head back and swallowed the potion in a single gulp.

As was so often the case it tasted foul. But there was just the slightest hint there of the hope he had for it; a slight taste and texture of toothpaste.

He sat down across from Saruman and waited.

"Fascinating," said Saruman, his heavy-lidded eyes still not leaving Harry's face.

"What is it?" Harry asked warily. "What is it you see?"

"Do you not feel anything?" Saruman said as he leaned even further forward. "Do you not see it?" He stood up and walked across to where Harry was sitting and looked him up and down. He raised his hand and mumbled quietly to himself in the language Harry had heard before from Morinehtar and him.

"I don't feel any different," said Harry. He remembered the sensation of regrowing the bones in his arm, he'd felt nothing. He ran his tongue over his broken teeth. He stilled.

Saruman smiled thinly behind his dark, silver-flecked beard. "Then you have noticed the meanest of the changes wrought. It will be some time, I think, before you understand what else you have done."

Harry jumped to his feet and darted across the room to where the mirror hung still concealed by a lint-covered sheet. He whipped the sheet off in a cloud of dust and stared at the face he'd long hidden away from.

His hair was as he remembered it from before his coming to Middle-earth. The scars so faded that had he not known of them he would probably have missed them completely. The gaunt look that he had never quite completely shaken was gone completely, replaced by an old familiar face.

Most strikingly, though, his teeth were returned, and he hadn't even felt it. He'd imagined before taking the potion that it would feel strange, that being without so many for so long would make his mouth feel insufferably full when they returned, but it was not. Everything simply felt right.

He looked to Saruman, who was now standing in the middle of the room, still smiling at Harry in a way that was almost grandfatherly.

"How?" Harry managed to ask.

Saruman chuckled, a rare sound and all the more valued for its scarcity. "You would ask me, when it was you who created that concoction?"

"My teeth, I understand. But my hair, my face? How is this possible?"

Saruman shook his head and his long dark hair rippled in the lamp-light. "Those are as they have been for months," he said. "Did I not tell you that you would not find that which you feared in a mere mirror?"

"I did not see it before," said Saruman as he looked Harry over again, his eyes glittered in calculation. "Blinded, perhaps, by the shade that hung across you. Now though, it is lifted at least in part, though there is yet more to be found."

But Harry paid his words little heed, and he was instead overjoyed by the results of his long labour. He did not notice Saruman leave.

o-o

"It is time for me to leave," said Harry as he stood before the throne of King Ginnar of Ironhaunt. Beside the king Saruman stood silent as he watched Harry from behind dark eyes. "Thanks to you and your people I have found much which I thought lost, but there is still more to find. It is time that I took my search abroad and into the world."

"It is yet late winter," said Ginnar, his thick brows bent in a frown. "The plains of Rhûn are treacherous for a man alone at this time of year. Would you not consider staying a while longer?"

"You are kind to offer me this," he said, but he knew that the relationship he and Ginnar had shared was distant at best, it had been rarely indeed that Harry had been called to his presence. In truth, Harry felt Ginnar would be glad to see him gone from his halls. "But as homely as your halls are, they are not my home; and as friendly as your people are, they are not the friends of my old life."

"To be parted from your people and your home for so long is no small torture," Ginnar allowed. "Yet still I find myself uneasy with this course of action. Though the armies of Ub-khun have broken themselves against the teeth of those plains there are still those who would do you harm."

"I will not travel West," said Harry. "I will travel North."

"To what purpose would you travel there?" asked Saruman from his place beside Ginnar. "The mountains to the North of here are no kind foes. You have found some portion of your old strength here, but your seed is but barely germinated into newest green shoots, and even the hardiest of late winter flowers may be killed by a heavy frost."

"I will travel the trade-road north to the Stiffbeard holds where I hope to learn more of the fire-drakes that troubled them in years past," said Harry and a hush fell over the crowd of dwarves who had until then been paying Harry's audience with the king little heed.

"You would _seek_ _out_ the fire-drakes?" asked Ginnar in poorly masked horror. "Those beasts have so ravaged the Dwarven holds since the elder days and yet you would go willingly in search of their fiery maws?"

"No." Harry shook his head firmly. "For I know I have not the power to contest with such creatures, but I wish to learn more of them as theirs is a power that may aid me in my bid to return to my true home."

"A quest for power is a dangerous thing, only to be undertaken by those wise of the pitfalls a mind may take in its pursuit," said Saruman, his eyes sharp. "Even so, I will not argue against it in this instance for what you seek in truth is knowledge, I think. For the power that you see in them is your own already, if still out of your reach."

Ginnar looked at Saruman for a long moment before returning his gaze to Harry. "Then I also will not speak against this folly," he said reluctantly. "Though I should ask that you at least await the next trading convoy and travel to the northern holds among them. The mountains in winter are no safe place, even now that Ub-khûn writhes in its last throes."

Harry bowed to the king and decided to accept the logic of his request. "Then I shall await the next convoy," he allowed. "Then I shall travel North, and when I leave I will leave behind my blessing for all you have done for me here."

With a nod from Ginnar, the audience was over. Harry made his way through the crowds of Dwarves towards the outer tunnels where his cell could be found. There was much preparation to be done, and many farewells to make. Before he got far, however, he was halted by Saruman's melodious voice.

"Do you recall what I told you when first we met?"

"I recall you saying a great many things," Harry said as he turned to greet the elder Wizard. "Which of those would you want me to remember?"

"I told you that fear was no crime, nor was it any shame," said Saruman as he stood in front of Harry. "Now I will tell you that bravery is no glory by itself. Blind bravery is as destructive as blind fear."

"I do not plan to do anything stupid," Harry said firmly. "I won't go hunting for dragons, of that you may be assured."

"Do not try to pull the wool over my eyes with your words, carefully crafted as they may be," said Saruman, and Harry was reminded of the power that Saruman wielded as the White Wizard. "You will not hunt them, but you hope, perhaps, that they will find you. That by some twisted _happy_ accident you will come into conflict with one, that the dragon will _choose_ to come to you."

During the months Harry had spent in Ironhaunt he had occasionally discussed what little he knew of wandlore with Saruman, it should have been no surprise that he had made the connection.

"It will happen," said Harry deliberately, "or it will not. Such things as these I cannot control, nor will I even try, I have learned that much from you at least. You know, even better than I, that the drakes of the north have slumbered for long years. I am no more likely to meet one in the north than I am to meet an eastern worm should I stay here."

"If that is what you have learned then it was not from me," said Saruman. "Instead, I think you learned something else from me, but you must remember that no words, no matter how careful or powerful can blind my sight, for in this I am the master. You may lie to yourself if you would wish, but you cannot lie so easily to me."

Harry bit down on the retort that he knew would otherwise have come, he stepped back. "Perhaps you are right. I would not have our parting be on a sour note, you have helped me much in these lasts months."

As suddenly as it had appeared, Saruman's wroth subsided. "I do not know how you came to be here, nor why it was allowed, but for what little such mere words are worth, I think I will in time be glad that you and I have met."

It was a statement that was so very unlike Saruman that for a moment Harry did not comprehend his meaning, and by the time he had Saruman has swept off, back towards his familiar spot at the side of King Ginnar. A small smile grew upon Harry's face and remained there throughout his walk back to his cell.

o-o

By a happy coincidence Buri's son, Onar was to travel north with the next caravan too, so Harry would not be entirely without familiar company, even if he did not know the young Dwarf as well as some others. It was not uncommon for young Dwarves to wander for a time between the clans of the eastern mountains, before returning home to make use of all they had learned.

Harry was checking his pack, for Lofar had gifted him a collection of small vials of flawless quartz glass and he wished to ensure that no harm would befall them during their journey northwards.

"I have been remiss," said a deep and familiar voice. Harry looked up to see Saruman standing close-by, flanked by Lofar and another Dwarf Harry recognised as one of the apprentice smiths alongside Onar.

Harry looked between the towering figure of Saruman and the two Dwarves. Saruman was clad as he always was, all in pure white and with his dark staff in hand. The apprentice, though, was carrying a long object wrapped in heavy fabric.

"A Wizard you are, though perhaps Istari you are not," said Saruman before Harry could frame his question. "And, as the leader of our order, it falls to me to recognise your nature."

The Dwarf stepped forward and held out the object in both his hands. Harry reached out and took it as realisation slowly dawned.

"A gift?" Harry asked as he felt the hard body of a staff beneath the fabric.

"You are a Wizard, and yet you have no staff," said Saruman simply. "Such craft is not the way of the Dwarves, despite their mastery of most."

Harry slowly unwrapped the gift in his hands until he revealed a staff unlike any he had before seen.

"It is made of stone?" he asked as he looked over it. Surely it should be too heavy and too fragile; it was no thicker than his wrist and was near as tall as he was. Thin strands of metal weaved around the smooth black stone, as if it had been captured in a spider's web. It as not straight, and in places curved and bulged like warped glass. Points of light shone like stars in the dark stone.

He hefted it in his hands and realised that it weighed less even than the wooden staff he'd carried during his time upon the plains of Rhûn. "How is this possible?"

Lofar had a proud glint in his eye as he spoke. "I have told you that stone has a purpose only it knows until it is formed by the stonemason," he said. "When I first laid eyes upon this I saw a strange purpose indeed. It is an old lava-pipe and the stone of its core is pumice; light, but brittle. The outer surface is the pipe itself, basalt, though I have worked it to be much thinner to save the weight."

"But will it not break and shatter as soon as I am forced to employ it in my defence?" Harry asked as he turned the object over in his hands again and again. Something in the mixture of rough stone and smooth metal felt more like magic than his own failed attempt at a wand.

"It would," said Saruman. "Had only Dwarves had a hand in its craft. But I think you will find that it will be as strong and unyielding as the mountains from which it was birthed."

Harry looked up. "But I cannot accept this," he said as he tried to hand it back to the apprentice who'd passed it to him. "I am no Wizard, I am still but a shadow of what I once was, for me to carry this, it is an insult to your order."

"Any man may carry a staff," said Saruman and Harry almost immediately felt a child for his attempt to turn down such a simple gift. He looked back at the beautiful inlaying.

"But this is no simple staff," he contested. "It is a work of craft and beauty and you yourself said it was a _Wizard's_ staff."

"If it is a Wizard's staff then that is only because it is a Wizard that bears it," Saruman reminded him. "There is no power in it, save the knowledge of craft that will keep it from breaking when pressed to use."

It was always difficult to wrangle at words with Saruman, for he'd been a master of them longer than Harry thought he would ever know. He decided to accept defeat gracefully.

"You have my thanks," he said as he set the staff at his side, the metal-clad base ringing upon the stone like a clear bell. He grasped each Dwarf firmly in the way of their people, and bowed his head to Saruman.

"You have learned our lessons, I think," said Saruman as the leader of the Dwarvish caravan called out for everyone to make ready to leave and the gates began to sweep slowly open. "I trust you will remember them."

"I will," said Harry as he brushed his hand up and down the smooth surface. He nodded one final time then turned to leave. He stepped out into the late winter snows and felt the winds swirl about him, but he did not feel the cold.


	12. And It Grew Fierce and Restless

The morning was cold and crisp. The sky overhead was a deep unfathomable blue, rimmed by dark clouds that had clung to the mountainsides through the windy night. Now that the wind had dropped they were creeping slowly back into the sky overhead. There had been a light snowfall amongst the winds the night before which had left even the lower valleys dusted with fine powdered crystal which shone like millions of tiny stars in the bright morning sun.

For the week since they had left Ironhaunt the going had been hard indeed, and it had been slow. Even for Dwarves, the mountain passes of the Orocarni were no easy obstacle. With them, they had a small train of light carriages, each pulled by two of the Dwarves' hardy mountain goats. They were short and stocky like their masters, and more sure footed than Harry would have thought possible. When they were released from their harnesses each evening to forage for their own food they would leap up or down the sheer cliffs with even greater ease than Harry could walk the well-maintained mountain trail.

Each night Harry would take his turn as part of the watch, for the late winter passes were never completely safe. Every now and then the howl of wolves would be carried to them upon the wind and the goats would become spooked and fidgety.

As had become his custom, each day, Harry went between each of the Dwarves of the convoy and talked and listened to those who would entertain him.

The greatest embarrassment of Harry's time with them had been in his own inability to speak or even understand their tongue beyond a few disjointed words. It was good, then, that every Dwarf he had ever met spoke in Westron almost as easily as their own tongue.

"It is impressive work," said Onar as he looked over the staff Harry had been gifted shortly before his departure from the Halls of the Ironfoots. "I know of no craft that would allow the metal and stone to work together as one like this. It was often said that Saruman was an artisan unlike any other in skill but I had thought that to be a tall tale of the kind which often grow up around the unfamiliar. Even my father said he'd seen nothing of the skill from him."

"He does not seem the type," Harry agreed. When he thought of the smiths or craftsmen of Ironhaunt it was not an image of Saruman that came to his mind. In the months he'd stayed among the Dwarves he had built an image of the White Wizard as a man who would surely see such practical applications to be below his notice.

That he had contributed to Harry's gift, felt special indeed.

"Perhaps it would be within the ability of Telchar of Nogrod in ages past," Onar said as he ran his calloused hands over the craftsmanship. "One day, I hope my own work might reflect just a little of the mastery shown in this. It is a grand gift. I will not now doubt his hands."

He handed the staff back with clear reluctance and lingering hands. The stone and metal, which should have been cold in the frigid air of the high mountains nevertheless felt warm to Harry's touch.

Onar opened his mouth just slightly, then seemed to hesitate.

"What is it you want to ask, Onar?" said Harry as lowered the staff to its increasingly familiar place at his side. Each time he struck it against the ground in his stride it would ring with a quiet but pure sound.

"It is said that you seek the gozîg, the dragon's of the north," the young Dwarf said after a few more second pause, his voice low.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. "No. I do not seek them," he reiterated, though there was a nagging feeling that he said it for his own benefit more than anything else. "But why do you ask? Do you know something of them?"

"That is good," said Onar, relief clear in the way his shoulders relaxed. "I know little of them, save the stories my father told me. He was there, you know, when King Gráni died."

"He never mentioned it," said Harry as he turned to look at Onar. Harry had not spent that much time talking with Buri during his time at Ironhaunt, the older Dwarf was always in motion carrying messages or carrying out other tasks.

Onar nodded. "He did not often speak of it, but he told me the tale, once."

Harry did not prompt the Dwarf to tell the story, if he was to tell the tale then it would be his own choice, not Harry's. They walked for a minute in silence and entered into a narrow gorge hewn by the Dwarves in ages past for their travellers. A few wayward flakes of snow began to tumble from the clouds that had grown overhead.

"What do you know of Were-worms and their kin?" asked Onar eventually.

"Little enough," Harry admitted. "They are smaller than the drakes of the north, I am told? Oh, and they are flightless."

"This is the truth, but it is but part of the story," said Onar as he warmed to the topic. "All dragons are intelligent, and possessed of a fierce and cruel cunning, but of all the tales of Dragons, it is Were-worms that are the most cruel and capricious."

"It is said that the fire-drakes and their northern kin have a powerful need for gold, they have ruined enough of Dwarven holds in their search for it, if the tales are true—"

"Oh the tales speak true," interjected another Dwarf walking nearby to them both. "You will see with your own eyes just what damage dragonfire can do when we reach Manarul a week hence."

"There is little wealth in gold beneath Aradi-unâ, and perhaps it is for the best, lest we would have drawn more dragons to our doors as have the Mebeltarâg, and the Abanbasân," said Onar, clearly wishing to continue with his story.

"There was a war," he continued. "Seven years ago. The Men of the Nutut-refeshshama, the Last Desert, came West in force and assaulted a few of the Eastern holds. The Dwarves came together, and a host of all the clans of these mountains met them in battle before the gates of Kidzul-Zabad'egam. The strength of Dwarves went unmatched that day, and the refeshmalu were sent from our lands, never to return. But we did not question _why_ they had come West in such numbers never-before-seen."

The old Dwarf walking nearby interjected again. He muttered into his beard, "Were-worms, beasts of Balkûn."

Onar grunted. "Were-worms, indeed. They came upon Kidzul-Zabad'egam while the great Wake was being held for those who had fallen in the battle, three great beasts with teeth like daggers and hide like the finest Dwarven mail."

"Two of them died in the end," said the old Dwarf, and Harry looked at him properly this time, and could see a long scar that ran down the left side of his face to be lost in his bushy grey beard. "After sending all too many to the Fathers. They could barely fit the doors of the City when they came, and the great gates fell before their mighty claws, rent and hewn like pig iron before the true steel. It was the last that was the largest, half again as large as the others, none could pierce its hide. At the last it was driven off only by injuries taken in its eyes.."

"But before they died or fled, Gráni was consumed in whole, and his son, Grím, was burned by their fire such that his armour melted into what remained of his flesh," Onar finished. "We have long experience with the fire-breathers of the Northern wastes, you would do well to hope you never meet one."

The old Dwarf who'd opted to join in with their conversation grunted. "Not the prettiest sight I ever did see," he agreed. "They can speak, you know, or so say the tales. They did not speak then, they laughed. They laughed even as the King's son burned, and they laughed even as they died. The laughter of a Dragon. I hear it still, on quiet nights, in dark halls."

Harry opened his mouth to question the grizzled Dwarf further when the howl of a wolf echoed across the narrow chasm, much closer than any of the previous ones and borne not on the wind from places distant. It was close, and it was joined by another, then another.

"Kanâd!" Shouted one of the Dwarves towards the front of the train. "Arm yourselves! Do not let them at the inbarathârag!"

Over the heads of the Dwarves towards the fore of the train, Harry saw the large, familiar dark shapes of Wargs entering the gorge, their huge dark outlines stark against the thin covering of snow from the night before.

The broad-shouldered Dwarves pushed forward to meet the foe. Any normal wolves would have no chance against them as each was clad in heavy leather and mail from head to toe, but these were no normal wolves.

Like the Wargs Harry had encountered after his release from Carn Dûm these were the size of bears, and with a light of cruel intelligence in their eyes. Beneath their thick shaggy coats powerful muscles were tensed and their jaws were ready to tear flesh from bone.

The fissure was not wide enough for Harry to join in the defence and instead he was forced to aid those who'd been left to the rear in their attempts to contain the now panicked goats. He did not have the stocky power of the Dwarves who were wrestling with the strong animals in an attempt to stop them from breaking the wagons apart in their panic, but his height was an advantage of its own.

The unsettling slitted eyes of the goats would settle on him as he stood at the rear of the column, staff in hand and arms spread wide, and each creature would turn aside from him and look for a different path to freedom and safety. In the narrow gorge, there was no path that did not lead through either wargs or Harry, and the goats were unwilling to try either.

They had no such issue with the Dwarves. Among the panicking animals, Harry was able to make out the shorter hair of Onar and he watched helplessly as the Dwarf was knocked down then trampled by one of the large goats. He hoped the Dwarf was uninjured.

The fight at the fore of the convoy went well, Harry could see for there were few more dangerous fighters to meet in an enclosed space than a Dwarf with his axe in hand.

He could hear the shouts and cries of the Dwarves as they fought, and the growls and howls of the Wargs as they were stymied, but a new sound joined the chaos. This sound was quieter, but so very much _closer_. It was the crunch of trodden snow just a short distance behind his back.

The lessons he'd had during his time with the Rethlapa returned to him then and he spun in place and swung his staff wildly at the presence he could feel there and was rewarded by a pained yelp. The leader of the Wargs which had tried to sneak up on the rear of the convoy was knocked back by Harry's attack and scrabbled back to its feet while three of its kin snarled and snapped at Harry from their position just beyond the range of his weapon.

He stood his ground and held his weapon ready in the way he'd been directed by Wambald more than a year ago. He looked each of them in the eye unflinchingly as he took strength from the staff he held in his hand and the comfort its strangely familiar weight provided. Some sense told him that the Dwarves behind him had realised the danger would soon come to his aid.

The wargs looked unsure, but in a moment their blood-lust overpowered any doubts they had and, as one, they lept forward with their teeth wide.

The old Dwarf from earlier leaped passed Harry with a cry. "Khazâd!" he shouted loud enough to near deafen Harry. He was soon joined by others who met the beats alongside Harry.

Growls from the wargs mingled with the cries of the Dwarves as battle was joined. The wargs lunged in turns and the Dwarves swung at them with their heavy axes, but the beasts were driven by hunger and possessed fell reactions which saw them clear of nearly every swing. Those few strikes that landed only served to enrage the beasts further, and the smell of their own blood drove them onwards.

One, thinner than the others with long matted grey fur than hung of its frame lunged at one of the Dwarves near the sides of the gorge and its cruel teeth cut through the heavy leather of his boots as the beast pulled the Dwarf off his feet with a powerful heave.

A moment later an axe buried itself in the beast's thick skull and it collapsed to the ground but already the felled Dwarf was out of the line and much too close to the other attackers. Other wargs quickly stepped forward and pulled him away from the safety of the defensive line and a triumphant howl went up from a few other the others.

In an act of desperation Harry cried, "Accio!" and thrust his staff at the doomed Dwarf. The magic did not come. A moment later huge jaws wrapped around the head and neck of the Dwarf and his screams were very briefly muffled, then silenced.

That death, spurred both sides on and the line of Dwarves began to break up as the individuals sought to reach their cunning and agile foes. Harry swung his long staff this way and that to fend off the wargs looking to flank the Dwarves that stepped out of line in their eagerness. His success was much greater than any of his companions, for his reach was near twice that of the Dwarvish axes, but the staff did little more than stun those he hit. Those he stunned were down for mere moments before they rose up again to rejoin the fray.

Another scream echoed across the gorge, followed by more triumphant howling. In moments, all semblance of order among the Dwarves had broken. They charged into the growling, snapping mass of their foe, and their axes flashed even below the clouded sky. Harry found himself alone as the fight became a dozen duels or skirmishes between Dwarf and warg. Battlecries, howls and screams tumbled back and forth across the gorge like a captured wave.

A warg, smaller than most but no less ferocious leaped at him over the corpse of one of the Dwarves who'd been fighting just moments ago and whose hands still grasped his axe in final defiance.

Harry's swung his staff around with both hands and met the warg's skull while it was still in flight. He sidestepped the nearly senseless warg as it barrelled by him to land in a heap just behind where he'd been standing. Moving quickly, he ran the few steps to the fallen Dwarf and prized the bulky axe from his bloodied hands. He hefted the weapon in his free hand, it was a Dwarf's Axe, and too heavy for Harry to wield for long in one hand, but the sounds of battle lent him the strength. He turned from the ruined Dwarf to find the warg nearly upon him again and he swung the axe with every ounce of strength he could muster.

The warg, still dazed by the blow it had taken to the head was slow to dodge and the axe hit deep into the flesh of its spine. In a moment, it fell to the ground as its useless legs buckled beneath it, yet still it tried to turn and snap at him in its frenzy. Harry heaved the axe free and swung a second time, the beast stilled, and it did not move again. For a moment it felt like silence fell about him, the clamour of battle a far distant whisper hidden behind some thick curtain.

There was little time to celebrate, though, for Harry looked up to see a grey-bearded Dwarf beset by two wargs. He was wielding two axes and each swung wildly through the air in an attempt to keep his attackers at bay.

Without hesitation, Harry jumped towards one of the wargs and his long staff swung towards the creature as Harry let loose a wordless cry. With unnatural reflexes, the warg spun out of the way and the staff smote the ground with a bright flash and a loud, bell-like sound. The stone he'd struck cracked and the warg rocked back as if burned.

Harry did not have time to wonder at the feeling of magic, lost and unfamiliar, for in moments the warg leaped forward again, bloodied teeth barred. The staff whipped back up and Harry swung it in a broad arc to keep the beast back. Harry stepped back to find some space, but the warg pressed in close again. He brought up his staff, much closer to his body this time, for there was no space to swung it and thrust it forward into the warg's mouth.

A confused look crossed the huge wolf's eyes when its teeth met the unyielding metal and stone and Harry took advantage of that moment to bring the axe around in a heavy strike to the side of the beast's head.

It immediately released the staff and jumped back, and the axe was torn from Harry's hand. One of its eyes was a ruined mess, but the other still gleamed with malice and fury and the warg stalked around Harry cautiously.

Harry backed slowly away as he tried to keep the warg in front of him without allowing another behind him. In the brief moment he was able to look around and found that the Dwarves were winning the fight, but it would be no easy won victory.

There was yet one warg for Harry to deal with though, and he focused his attention on it once again. He kept his staff in front of him as a defense as the warg continued to stalk around him, looking for an opening. With each passing moment, Harry knew the battle came closer and closer to a conclusion, all he needed to do was fend the beast off until the Dwarves could finish it off with their axes.

He tried to take another step back and was met with resistance, the sheer stone of the gorge wall was behind him. His attention flickered as he nearly lost his balance. The warg's eyes glinted with fierce delight and it surged forward. Its jaws closed upon Harry's right leg for the briefest moment before his staff forced the beast back again. As it did though it ripped at his clothes and flesh and he was dragged to the ground.

The warg immediately turned towards Harry and it seemed like it smiled as it bared its blood-caked teeth. Harry lay upon the ground and looked at the world for what was surely the last time.

He saw the overhanging rock of the gorge wall above, the thin strip of sky beyond. He saw the individual flakes of snow that seemed to hang in the air about him, they caught the light like diamonds, or impossible fine spun glass. He saw the bodies of warg and Dwarf alike, and the blood spread across the snow against the black rocks of the gorge. He wondered at how so much blood could fall upon the pure snow, yet the black stone was unmarred.

He saw the warg bearing down upon him, jaws agape and nothing but reckless hatred in its eyes. It would not escape this day, but he could see that it did not care if it could but take him with it.

Harry looked back towards the sky, and found again the rock that separated him from it. What was it Ginnar had said?

His hand pressed against the stone of the ravine wall and he felt there some protective spirit; stone that had watched over the Dwarvish travellers for millennia. He felt the desire to help. He did not know what he was trying to do, but something within him spoke with the stone, and it listened.

There was an almighty crack above him, and the warg stopped suddenly in its tracks to look up. There was but a moment of alarm on its wolfish features before heavy black stone from the overhang above crushed the warg with nary a whimper from the beast.

Harry let out a long breath, and lay his head back against the smooth, cold stone. He closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks to whatever power was watching over him, he was happy to be alive.

A howl went up from the other end of the column and the few remaining wargs at the rear of the caravan at last wavered. Those few that remained turned to run, or fell where they stood, cut down by vengeful Dwarves during a short-lived pursuit.

The old Dwarf from earlier stepped up beside him, two bloodied axes still in-hand.

"Ubkhu'galkhâ," he said to Harry as they both watched the last of the wargs disappear from sight beyond the end of the canyon.

Once they were gone the Dwarf turned back to Harry and offered him his arm. Harry grasped it and pulled himself to his feet with a pained hiss as he tried to put some weight on his injured leg.

"There will be a lot of those among those who survived," said the Dwarf, and he reached up to pat Harry on the shoulder. The action sent painful flashes through his side and leg. "You will be in good company."

Harry placed an arm around the Dwarf's shoulders and leaned upon him heavily in an attempt to save his injured leg. "You saved my hide, back there," the old Dwarf said as he led Harry back towards the caravan at a painfully slow pace. "And a few others, too, I think. I am Thórir, and you have my thanks, Darjûn."

"I did only what was necessary," said Harry as he tried to make out Onar among the surviving Dwarves. "They would have killed me too."

"So it always is, in battle," said Thórir. "But we all are naddud 'uzghu now, every Dwarf fights for himself in his first battle, in his second he fights for the Dwarf next to him and in his third he fights for all Dwarves."

"I am no Dwarf," said Harry as an unbefitting smile tugged at his features.

"Now you are. Not kinsman, perhaps, but you have fought at the side of Dwarves to save the blood of Dwarves. You are a Dwarf," said the grizzled Dwarf in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

Harry was unable to control it. He laughed, and the sound was utterly out of place among the blood and death of the small battlefield, though no less welcome for all that. "You don't think I'm a little tall?" he managed to ask between gasps.

Thórir shook gently beneath Harry's weight and he felt more than heard the Dwarf's own rumbling laughter.

It was short-lived, but no less welcome for all that. As soon as it faded Harry looked about at the many injured Dwarves all about. He saw a bruised and battered, but alive, Onar and breathed a sigh of relief. He looked down at Thórir. "See if you can find my baggage," he said, all mirth now gone from his voice. "I think there is yet more for me to do."

o-o

"Manarul was a great hold, once and long ago," said Thórir as the Dwarvish caravan approached the blackened gates set high atop a mountain plateau a week's travel north of their battle with the Wargs. "But Dragons were drawn to its wealth like moths to a flame."

Harry looked at the great gates and could see there some long lost echo of the greatness that had once been held within. Now, though, they were blackened and warped and stood ajar and unmoving. Earth and stone had piled up against them over the years, only a narrow path had been kept clear for travellers seeking shelter.

That their journey had only been a week had been the source of much amazement among the remaining Dwarves. Harry's salves and potions had saved more than half-a-dozen of the injured travellers, and had eased the pain of many more. After just a single day of recovery and burying the dead they had been back upon the mountain trail, and had made as much speed as before their battle.

"I heard word that it was haunted," said Harry as he tried to make anything out in the gloom beyond the door.

"Nay," said Thórir as he shook his head, "Save by those brave few who live here still. Most of the Dwarves this far North have long since spread out into smaller keeps, small enough that no Dragon may find entrance through the unbreaking stone of the mountain. The lower depths are said to be overrun by Orcs and other, fouler things, but they have been long blocked off from the light above."

There were few things in Harry's mind more foul than Orcs; one thing only, in truth. Or one man, if such a creature could still be called a 'Man'. He had no desire to seek any such creature out.

"Then for what reason do the caravans travel so often back and forth?" Harry asked. Surely if the northern Dwarves were so scattered a people it would be hard to trade with them on any scale.

"Though Manarul is near abandoned as a city, it is still the seat of the King of Stiffbeards," said Thórir as they crossed the threshold into the semi-darkness beyond. "It is still the hub of trade in the North."

As his eyes slowly adapted to the dim, Harry was able to look about him at the once great city. Bare stone, cleaved stone, blackened stone. No adornment was to be found on any of the walls and the floor was rough and deeply scored by claws that must have been the size of a horse. He did not wish to think how large the beast that had borne them might have been, perhaps ten times the size of the Dragon he'd faced himself in another world, another life.

There were great blank spots upon every wall and pillar where once hung huge slabs of gold, the wealth of the mountain, cast and worked into monuments to the deeds of the great kings of old.

All that was gone now. There was only the long cold memory of fiery death in the blackened stone and few pieces of melted metal still upon the walls.

Harry now understood the caution of Saruman, and of the Dwarves. No matter how far his power grew there was no way he could hope to bring down any beast so large and deadly as that which had been the death of that city of ruins.

"What happened to the Dragon that did this?" he asked Thórir as he stared at the century-old damage.

The old Dwarf grunted, "It fought another Dragon over the riches here, both died of their wounds. They have no thought nor dream of kinship, their will is only to dominate like the one that spawned their fathers when the world was yet young."

"What happened to the body?" Harry asked. He didn't expect that it had survived, but perhaps if he could find a more recent Dragon corpse his journey would not be in vain.

"I don't know. There are a few shields I have seen that have tales attached to them that say they come from the scales of the beasts that were found here after their battle," said Thórir. "But I wouldn't be surprised if they were locked away and have rotted to nothing by now. You do not know how much these people despise Dragons."

"I think I could perhaps hazard a guess," said Harry. There was something in the blackened and scarred city that reminded him of the walls of Carn Dûm. Perhaps it was some shade of the suffering they had both seen. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, he was here for a reason, and shadows of the past could serve only to distract him from his goal.

He needed to seek out something of a Dragon, and for that he would need his ear to the ground.

o-o

"It is said that Khazad-dûm is to be abandoned," said a Dwarf as Harry listened with detached interest. "A great fiery beast descended upon it, killed the King of Durin's Folk and drove them from their Halls."

"A Dragon?" Harry asked sharply. This was news such that he'd been waiting for for all too long.

"Do you know of any other beast that could drive the strongest of the Dwarf clans from the greatest of the cities of our people?" asked the Dwarf. "Even a dragon… It must be one of the greatest of its kind to still stalk Middle-earth."

Another Dwarf joined in the conversation. "I have travelled to Khazad-dûm once, when I was but a young lad. A greater hall I have never seen, and no Dragon could breach its gates. They are too small and too strong. Even should such a beast gain entrance it could not hope to navigate the deeps, nor even reach the great Halls. It spans the mountain range and the tunnels run unnumbered. It could not be laid low by any Dragon."

"Do you call me liar?" asked the first Dwarf and he pushed himself back from the table at which they were sat in a burst of movement.

Perhaps it might have gone further, but Harry laid a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder and spoke as evenly as he could. "He would do no such thing," he said soothingly. "But it is a tale, and it came to you through many mouths and many ears, did it not? You know how reliable such news can be."

The Dwarf paused for a moment before grunting and sitting down again. He took a large gulp from the tankard of earthy Dwarven beer. "I will let it pass this time," he said grudgingly. "But what I said is only what news has come to the King here."

Even with his doubts, it was the most promising story Harry had heard in the three years of his time in the harsh northern mountains.

It had become almost a habit. He would travel from one small hold to the next and offer his services as a healer. He had soon become well known among the hardy folk of the mountains. Aches and pains and other injuries were a constant companion in the hard lives of the Dwarvish miners, and the warriors who sought to keep them safe from the roving bands of desperate men shaken loose from Ub-khûn after its near collapse and the unexplained disappearance of Khamûl from its jagged throne.

It had served to give the long wait meaning. Among the grand Halls of Ironhaunt Harry had been little more than a curiosity, here among the Stiffbeards he was both useful and respected.

He had, on occasion, travelled south and a few times he had travelled north to investigate some tale or other of dragons. It was only the occasional dreams he had, when he saw the high towers of the home he'd lost, that he remembered why it was he was living in such a harsh and dangerous place.

On most of his travels, he'd had a companion; Thórir had rarely opted to leave Harry's side, much though Harry tried to protest. The old Dwarf said simply that he had a debt to repay, and that he would see it done.

Harry had asked why none of the other Dwarves he had helped had taken to following him on his every journey and Thórir had simply shrugged and told him that young Dwarves had no appreciation for the traditions of their people. It had been an argument Harry could see would be fruitless.

Onar had returned home to Ironhaunt after just two years in the North. Harry had travelled back with the young Dwarf, for he felt some little piece of kinship with the young Dwarf who'd found himself wanting in the face of adversity.

It felt like so long, now, that he'd first left Ironhaunt in search of tales of dragons but here, now, after more than three years, a flickering light illuminated the path before him, a path he'd thought long lost.

He left the Dwarves to continue swapping their stories and went to where he knew he'd find someone with whom he could talk.

Thórir was training again, in what had once been a training yard fit for a King's army. Now it was mostly ruined, great stones had been cleft from the ceiling above and lay scattered across the soft sand of the cavern floor. It was said that much of the final battle between the two great worms had been fought here. Harry could see why.

"What do you know of Khazad-dûm," Harry said with raised voice once he was close enough to be heard over the Dwarf's grunting.

Thórir paused in his training and looked Harry over. "So you have heard the rumour of its fall then," he said without preamble. He turned back to the younger Dwarf against whom he was sparring. "No Dragon could gain entry to those Halls. Ironhaunt is a hovel compared to the City of Durin's Folk."

Harry leaned back against a nearby stone and watched as the two Dwarves returned to their sparring.

After a while, the two Dwarves slowed their activity and Harry called out again. "What about a very large dragon? The like of which hasn't been seen since the last age?"

No Dragon large enough to battle the city and win could fit through the gates," said Thórir. "And those gates were made by the greatest of craftsmen, both Dwarf and Elf."

"Something else then," said Harry as he tried to come up with some reason for such an outlandish rumour to have made it so far. "Some other creature from the elder days?"

"There are none," said Thórir tiredly as he picked up some items he'd set aside during his training. "Dragons are the last great threat in this world."

That was really all there was to it, Harry supposed. The tale, whatever had inspired it, was impossible. Khazad-dûm was the greatest city in Middle-earth, and its people both noble and valiant. There was no power in Middle-earth great enough to lay it low.

But as the days slipped beyond the western hills, and the weeks slipped by, the stories did not fade and instead grew in detail and length. It was a month after Harry had first heard the rumour that at last the full truth was made clear.

"I was there," said a Dwarf, recently arrived from the Western hills. "A shadow of flame rose up from the deeps, Durin's Bane, we called it for no weapons could harm it. It had fire running in its veins, and a great whip of unquenchable fire that cut through everything it touched. Shadow rose about it wherever it went and no door could stay it for long. Durin was lost within weeks of the beast's awakening, and though we fought hard and for every Hall, Náin too fell eventually."

He took a deep gulp from the tankard that had been placed in front of him by the attentive Dwarves all around. "So we fled, we left the pride of all Dwarves to wither in the unholy claws of some unknowable beast from the Elder days. Moria it is now for true, the Black Pit that swallowed all but the meanest of Durin's Folk. Nothing can stand against that devilry."

The occasional glances sent in Harry's direction by the crowd of Dwarves was not lost on him. It was no dragon, but it was perhaps the next best thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bunch of stuff that needs to be addressed for folk unfamiliar with the minutia of Tolkien's works:
> 
> There are seven clans of Dwarves. Longbeards, Firebeards, Broadbeams, Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots. The Longbeards include Gimli, Thorin and so on. The Ironfists are the clan Harry was staying with in Ironhaunt. The Stiffbeards are the Dwarves of this chapter, the Stonefoots and Blacklocks were the Dwarf clans further east that battled the were-worms in the story at the start of this chapter. Kidzul-Zabad'egam (Golden Throne) was the capital of the Stonefoot Dwarves (not canon).
> 
> Manarul means 'renewed place' in (Neo)Khuzdul. Sadly, it was only renewed once. It is/was the capital of the Stiffbeards.
> 
> Khazad-dûm is Moria, the capital of Durin's Folk (the Longbeards).
> 
> The other uses of Dwarvish should be reasonably clear in meaning from their context, I hope. In any case, they are not plot critical.


	13. A Light Shone into the West

"What do you believe you will be able to do?" Harry asked as he rubbed at his forehead tiredly. "Hundreds, thousands of your kin tried to fight the beast, and their only reward was death. Why do you think you will fare better?"

Thórir shook his head and swigged from his tankard before speaking. "I do not seek battle here," he said without looking at Harry. "It is you who wishes to seek out that which laid a nation low. I only seek to join you, and perhaps steer you away from the path that draws you so."

"You _don't_ seek a fight?" Harry asked as he concealed a smile behind his own stein. "This, then, is surely an auspicious day. Thórir the Wanderer has heard the tale of a great beast, or battle for the tale-tellers and he does not seek to join the fray."

"You would do well to take heed," said Thórir in the same gruff and serious voice that Harry had come to know over the years of their acquaintance. "I have listened to the stories, as have you, yet some madness draws you forth to a battle that no mortal may win."

"What if I am not mortal?" Harry asked, bluntly. "I bear the staff of a Wizard, and you know well the stories that are told of me across all these mountains. Id-ubsat, they call me."

"The healer." Thórir looked Harry in the eye at last, and as he did so he took another deep draft. "Do you mean to heal Durin's Bane to death? Perhaps the concoction you presented to Hrofi last week to aid him with his warts would send the downfall of Khazad-dûm fleeing back to whatever black abyss spawned it?"

"I have done more than heal in these last years, as you well know," said Harry as he broke eye contact and returned to his drink. "You have taught me something of the blade, I recall coming to your aid not three months ago when we were beset by bandits to the south."

"And I remember coming to yours more times than I care to mention," said the Dwarf, still looking at Harry with a grave expression upon his grizzled features. "I do not know what it is that you can do when your need is great enough, nor do I understand your impossible _potions_ , but I know enough to see that you do not stand among the great heroes of the old tales."

Harry placed the empty stein back upon the table before his gaze returned to his companion. "I know," he said at last. "I know it is a long shot, and I know that it is likely that I walk to my doom. But I have been away from my home for seven years, _seven_ years Thórir. I have forgotten their voices, and I can barely see their faces even in my most vivid dreams. If I do not act now then they will be lost, another seven years and this place will have near as much claim to being my home as my own world!"

"Walking willingly into the maw of Death will not see you returned."

"Nor will sitting in some Dwarvish gêdula'gal, drinking my memories to nothing; or wandering from hold to hold offering curatives like I am some kind of nurse-maid!" said Harry as he slapped his hand upon the aged wood of their table. "Do the Dwarves not have a saying that fortune does not come to those who will not delve for it?"

Thórir made a growling, groaning sound. "You have made your point," he said before pushing himself to his feet, the grinding of the stool loud against the low murmur of the tavern. "Despite my misgivings, know that I will walk this path with you."

Harry opened his mouth to explain a little more but they were then joined at their table by two more Dwarves, both with two drinks in hand. They pushed one each across to Harry and Thórir. "Then perhaps another two companions may join you both," said one.

The one that had spoken was wearing the light leathers common among Dwarves in places of safety, they were unusual only in the quality of their construction. His hair was a dirty blond, and his chest-length beard was braided much more artfully than most. Dark eyes glittered with excitement beneath his bushy eyebrows. The other had dark russet hair, trimmed into a much simpler style, he was the younger of the two, but he bore a serious look upon his face.

Thórir did not take the offered drink and instead looked over the two newcomers. "This is no jolly for young Dwarves with wanderlust," he said with a wave of his calloused hand.

"You speak of our home," said the other, before Thórir could leave. "Náin was my uncle."

Thórir stopped and turned to look at the two Dwarves again. Harry blinked, and raised an eyebrow. "Náin, who was King of Durin's Folk?"

The Dwarf nodded quickly. "Who was burned to nothing in his armour by flames that rose from clefts of the earth that opened in but a moment. I am Frór, this is my friend, Flói."

"You have seen Durin's Bane, and what works it wrought upon your home, and you would still seek to return?" asked Thórir as he stopped to turn a disbelieving gaze towards the two younger Dwarves.

"I have not," said Frór, before explaining. "Few who have seen that terror have long lived, but all who escaped from Moria have seen its shadow and flame, all have felt its fell power fall over the Halls of our fathers. Agbâsh mamkhihi ganudâl, as Darjûn says."

Harry took a sip from the tankard they'd given him. "Why would a Dwarvish Prince, and his companion" —He inclined his head towards Flói— "Choose to walk into such a danger? And why would you come so far to the ends of the world if only to return back at the first opportunity?"

"Prince of a dead kingdom," said Frór. "And I am far from the throne, if that now means anything. Thráin is King now, and after him his younger brother, child though he be. Next are my two older brothers, then me. The throne of Durin's Folk does not want for princes, even now."

"But why are you _here_ ," Harry persisted. "There are few places further removed from your homeland. Why come so far, only to return within months?"

"We had thought it hopeless," said Flói, before Frór could speak. "But you are a wizard, are you not? Like Tharkûn? What better hope have we of success than if we walk into the darkness by your side?"

Harry felt Thórir's gaze upon him, and he shifted uncomfortably upon his stool. "Well, I suppose… Who is Tharkûn?"

"He is a Wizard. Gandalf, he is known as among Men, I think," said Frór. "He bears a staff too, like you."

"Any man may carry a staff," muttered Thórir his gaze still resting on Harry.

"Yes, I am a Wizard," said Harry as he steadfastly ignored Thórir's unspoken accusation. "And if you wish to travel with us, then I will welcome you. It will be good to have someone who knows the city, when we at last reach it."

"I hope you both can wield a blade," said Thórir in a low voice as he stumped away from the table, his drink untouched. "I fear we shall need it."

Harry watched the old warrior's back as he exited the gloomy tavern. He turned back to the two younger Dwarves and took another gulp of the ale they'd given him. "Do not mind him, come, now, tell me what it was that brought you so far out into the wilds."

Flói shrugged and swigged at his drink, Frór, though, answered. "Our people have scattered wide after the fall of Khazad-dûm, from the Blue Mountains to the Red they have travelled wherever wind and fortune may bear them. My cousin hopes to gather them again, to forge another great kingdom of Durin's Folk from the ruins of Moria."

"And so you were given the task of bringing word to those of your people who came here?" Harry asked. "Why, then, would you cast that errand aside to follow me back to the home you so recently lost?"

"Our people are scattered," said Frór as he leaned forward, eyes serious and drink forgotten. "But more than that they are broken. The Axe of Durin is lost, his Throne lies a charred ruin. They have need of hope, more than anything. All Thráin has to offer are promises and his own hopes and dreams. We are a practical folk, dreams cannot feed the hungry, and nor can hopes house the weary. If there was some sign that Khazad-dûm was not beyond hope…"

"You hope to give them that beacon of hope," said Harry as continued to drink from his stein. "However small."

"If anyone can best that beast, then it is a Wizard," said Flói his eyes bright. "Why, should you return our home to us you would be held among the greatest of legends. Our names would be spoken of in the same breath as Azaghâl, or even Durin himself."

Harry stopped, mid-sip. "I have no need of notoriety," he said firmly.

There was a muffled clanking noise from beneath the table, and Harry saw Flói wince almost imperceptibly. Frór responded, "And nor have I. It is for our people that we would risk this. Flói misspoke, as is often his way."

"Ah, yes," said Flói with a glance at Frór. "So I did."

"Hmmm." Harry stood up and looked at the two Dwarves one last time. "We leave in three days, at dawn, from the West Gate. Know this, though. If this darkness is as terrible as your people say then you will find scarce little honour in its shadow."

For a moment as he spoke it seemed that the long shadows of the gloomy bar deepened. A memory of shadow passed across the minds of everyone there, and a few of the Dwarves shivered as if from cold. Then, the moment passed and Harry strode from the bar without a backwards glance. He knew, already, what their decision would be.

o-o

"We should take the North road," said Thórir almost as soon as their little band had set out from the West Gate of Manarul. "It is the longer road, but it will be safer, and leave us less prone to the vagaries of the Winds With Teeth, should they rise upon the plains."

Harry shook his head, "It is late in the year, but it has been uncommonly wet these past weeks. If the wind should rise then it will not bite, at least for a few days. If we head south, make for the Sea of Rhûn we can then follow the rivers into the West."

"And what of Ub-khûn?" asked Thórir. "They no longer have the armies to threaten Ironhaunt or any of the other cities of the East, but they have strength enough to watch the Westward road."

"For our part," supplied Flói, "we came to the East in the lea of the Grey Mountains, for there is no cover, and nowhere to run upon the plains of Rhûn."

"The Northern path also is the shorter, and we may come upon some of my own people who could provide food and shelter, should we need it," Frór said.

Harry had to bow to the good sense, much though he wished to find an excuse to cross paths with the Rethlapa again. "Then the Northern way it is, we will head south only once we have passed Mirkwood."

For the first week, the journey proved easy, and they met no Men or Dwarves on their way. No beasts assailed them, and the weather held, fine and clear. The mountains passed them slowly by to their north, the high pinnacles tipped with gleaming white snow which ventured ever lower down the slopes as the winter drew closer with each day. To the south, the plains lapped up against the lower slopes and the rolling rises and valleys stretched into the far distance.

It brought back memories for Harry. Memories of long days walking beside the wagons and wains of the Rethlapa, of talking to Úda or trying to avoid the younger tribe members who wished to stare and marvel at the stranger in their midst.

After a week upon their road they met with a group of Dwarves; more lost souls cast adrift with the loss of their homes in Khazad-dûm. The travellers paused in their journey for long enough to offer them what aid they could. It was a group of maybe fifty, more than half of whom were women, with their somewhat more elaborately coiffed hair and beards, or children. Families, Harry quickly realised.

He did what he could for those with hurts and ailments. Dwarves were a sturdy folk, and it took great injury to bring them down, but even their constitutions could be worn down by wind, rain and beasts, especially when coupled with the hopeless sorrow that afflicted all their people in their darkest days. Among the group were two very young Dwarves, still unable to walk.

Usually such young Dwarves never left their holds, for children came rarely to their people, and each one was guarded more fiercely than even their greatest and richest hoards.

During his time among the Dwarves of the Red Mountains, the Ironfists and Stiffbeards both, he had seen few enough children who were not ill. So closely guarded were they that even one as trusted as Harry had become among the Dwarves in the north was not so trusted as to be left alone with a child.

Those times he had seen them, it had seldom been for long, only as long as was needed, and always under the ever watchful eye of the child's mother. And it was always because of some injury or ailment that had inflicted itself upon the child.

For Dwarvish children were often frail things, a strange irony among a folk usually so sturdy. He could only guess that the thick bone-structure of the Dwarves did not make the birthing easy, for the children were born even smaller and weaker than those of humans.

It was often not until their seventh year or later that they would learn to walk and talk. And where most Dwarves were strangers to disease, their impressive constitutions granting them immunity to most major human ailments, their children were so frail in their early years that they might have been made out of spun glass.

That two such children had made it so far, probably more than two months of travel from Khazad-dûm spoke to the desperation of their parents.

"Let them join with us," said Frór quietly to Harry on the second night. "There may be women and children with them, but they would be better off with us. You saw how ill this journey goes with the little ones."

"You know that the journey is yet long," said Harry in similarly hushed tones. "We are but a week from Manarul, and though it is no great palace it would serve them better than another three weeks or more out in the open, as they would have to endure if they were to join with us. Winter may well be upon us before we reach our destination."

"Near four weeks at our current pace, with the women and babes it could be easily double that," said Flói, from Frór's side.

"They have travelled far already, Frór," said Harry. "You would not ask them to travel so much further? Let them make for the safety of Manarul, or Ironhaunt beyond. We could not guarantee their safety on the journey back."

Frór stared into their fire for a time as he chewed upon his lip in thought. "Though it pains me, you both are right," he said at last. "Their best hope is to continue Eastwards, much though I wish we could do more for them."

"I will give them as much warming potion as I can make with the ingredients I have," said Harry. "And whatever else I have on hand, healing salves, even a few of our sustaining potions to replace their meagre foodstuffs. I have spent much time looking to the healing of little ones over the last few years. I will be able to see them safely to Manarul."

"It would ease my mind," said Frór as he nodded at Harry. "To leave my people like this sits ill with me."

"I understand," said Harry, his thoughts with the friends he'd left behind to battle Voldemort alone. Somewhere, out beyond the horizons of Middle-earth, beyond the walls of night that encircled it, his friends were still alive. He could feel it, and they surely were locked in battle with Voldemort, a battle he should have fought for them, they did not deserve that hardship. "I understand only too well."

Silence fell about the campfire and the Dwarves bedded themselves down for the night, wrapped tightly in their warm bedrolls. It was not long before their mixed snores, an ever present nocturnal companion when travelling with Dwarves, filled the nighttime air.

Harry took the first watch, as he often did for he found it easier to think in those hours of twilight, when the departed sun still cast a faint shadow of its daytime glow over the land. He poked at the fire and stared into its depths, lost in long familiar thoughts of home. He watched the flames shimmy to and fro, as they danced to some music beyond any Man's ability to hear.

His mind's eye could see fleeting glimpses of home in the ever-moving flames, like shapes in clouds. Wood, charred white, so like the colour of Voldemort's skin. The red flame, Weasley hair and blood. The occasional flicker of green could have been some metal in the wood, or it might have been the memory of a Killing Curse, bearing voiceless death with its cold embrace.

The red flames crackled on and the wood slowly blackened beneath them as Harry tried to see across the worlds. Even after seven years or more, his inability to help pained him.

When he had stepped into the Forbidden Forest, he had known what he was doing; for Voldemort to die, so too must he. He went, not gladly, but in the knowledge that his sacrifice would save those who had fought at Hogwarts, and that Voldemort would become vulnerable. He had fulfilled his goal. Whether by time or battle, Voldemort's days were numbered.

But it still felt like a task left half-completed. A book half-read. A song left hanging, abandoned mid-word.

He picked up his staff from where it rested against a nearby stone and ran a hand over the smooth metal and stone. It was so very close to what he needed, and yet something still wasn't right. He'd had it for years and only rarely had it produced flashes of magic or the most fleeting of effects.

He still didn't understand what it was about those moments that caused the magic to swell into being. Most had been in moments of stress or dire danger, but a few had not.

On one occasion, he had awoken one night while travelling between two holds to find the fine metal ornamentation glowing with a pure, pale light that had cast strange shadows over his campsite. It had been no conscious act of his own, of that he was sure, but when he had gazed at the staff as the light within it slowly faded, he had known that it was his doing nonetheless. Something in the light had felt familiar.

For the longest time, he'd thought it had reminded him of his Patronus, and the warm light it had given off. He'd even tried to cast that particular spell on a few occasions, though he'd found no success. No Patronus had manifested, the staff hadn't shone with even the faintest of glows, but more than that he could feel it within himself that it hadn't come close to working.

There was a feeling within his chest that the magic seemed to prompt. It wasn't a feeling of power, though. There was none of the grasping constricting power he'd felt within the Witch King there. It was more like a gentle and soothing caress. He'd come to notice it more keenly in recent years and months; it was not something he'd ever noticed while he'd been learning magic at Hogwarts.

He set his staff aside and lay back upon his bedroll. The stars overhead shone clearly, bright and pure against the blackness. Harry was reminded of the short time he'd spent with the Elves of the Wildwood. He could still remember the tune of one of the songs he'd heard filter down to him as he'd lain below those ethereal boughs. He smiled as he remembered the tune, and the sentiment that had not needed any mere words to express.

He turned over onto his side to sleep and saw his staff laying before him. It was glowing faintly, as if the metal had captured some small portion of the starlight that shone over Middle-earth.

o-o

They reached the Greylin river more than three weeks later, after meeting a few more groups of wandering Dwarves. Harry had done what he could to aid them with his magic, but he'd quickly found his supplies of ingredients dwindling. With winter closing in the lower slopes of the Grey Mountains were not a ready source of replacements.

He did what he could with what he had available, but with each passing week and every gaunt and haggard group of Dwarves, his best dwindled with his supplies. Not for the first time, he cursed his continued lack of wand. Nearly every attempt to coax out his magic through the staff Saruman had gifted him had proven fruitless.

But not every attempt had been met with failure. He could make the light of the stars shine from his staff. It had seemed a simple idea to one who knew the workings of the Patronus Charm, but it had not proved nearly so simple.

It was not thoughts of stars that brought his magic to the fore, nor was it his memories of the Elvish songs. It was both of those things, or neither. To create the light he needed to remember the sensation of belonging he'd felt on that night. He needed to remember the realisation that even in the darkest of times there would always be light, that out there, beyond even the darkest clouds there was a purity and goodness that no evil could ever hope to touch.

When told of his discovery Thórir had congratulated him in his typically brief manner. It was clear that the Dwarf had little time for parlour tricks that he felt would be of little use, but he'd known Harry long enough to know how important that small vestige of magic was to him.

Frór and Flói had not really understood the significance of the act, but Harry had not really expected them to.

So they had continued on their travels, and each night Harry would sit with his staff in his hands long after everyone else had gone to sleep. The faint glow of his staff cast soft shadows over the campsite until it was time to awaken Thórir to take his time on watch.

At the suggestion of Frór and Flói the group had elected to follow the Greylin River into the south.

"The mountain paths are more familiar to us," Frór admitted when they were camped upon the banks of the Greylin one night. "But as winter draws in the Vales of the Anduin are likely to be much less dangerous, though the peoples that live there are varied, they have not yet forgotten the riches that could be had by trading with my people."

"What of the dark things chased from Angmar in its final days?" asked Thórir. "Many came into the east in the months after its fall, surely many more remained here?"

"Not with Khazad-dûm so near," said Flói. "There were a few attempts at raiding our northward and eastward roads, but that was before the shadow and flame awoke beneath our halls. They were driven easily from our lands."

"The people of the Vales have grown in strength and number too," said Frór. "Rhovanion is but a distant memory, but its people have been free now for many years and most moved after being freed from slavery to the plains tribes."

"And these people would be friendly, should we cross paths with them?" said Thórir as he poked at the fire in an attempt to coax some more life into it, to ward off the gathering cold.

"They are Men," said Frór as he shrugged. "They can be as changeable as the wind. Your guess would be no worse than mine."

"If what you say is true," said Harry as he felt the need to stand up for his own, "then they have seen much strife in these lands. When last I walked through here I came upon a village that had been almost destroyed, its people included, by roving bands of Orcs displaced from Angmar that was. I would not begrudge them a little caution."

Thórir grunted in agreement, but Frór and Flói remained quiet. Harry could not tell if their silence was one of thought, or disagreement. Perhaps they were thinking about the recent suffering of their own people, and that effect it may eventually have.

It was not long before they had an opportunity to test Harry's theory. After a few days more of travel, they came to the fork between the Langwel, the river which Harry had followed so many years ago on his Eastwards journey, and the Greylin. A settlement had grown up at the fork, it was small, a scattered collection of ramshackle houses that looked very much like they'd been thrown up quickly to stave off the weather, and then never replaced with more permanent abodes.

"We should look for a way around," suggested Frór. "We cannot gauge their intent without making ourselves known, and if they are hostile then there is surely no way we could escape."

"I have travelled these lands before," said Harry as he shook his head. "The Orcs were hostile, of that there can be no doubt, but the Men were just normal people, trying to make do as well as they could. I do not believe we have anything to fear from them."

"I doubt that such Men as built these flimsy and ill-crafted abodes could present us much challenge unless in great numbers," suggested Flói.

"You should think less about the glory of battle and adventure," said Thórir to the younger Dwarf. "When you have seen the truth of it I doubt you will be so quick to draw your axe."

"So says Thórir the Wanderer," said Flói. "Even in the short time we were at Ironhaunt we heard tale of you and your long wandering. What did you search for, if not glory and battle?"

"Enough," said Harry as frowned at Flói. "Do you not see that we have been sighted?"

The argument was immediately set aside, for a small group of men, each riding atop an impressive steed, was making their way quickly towards the group of travellers. Each man had long blond hair that shone like liquid gold in the low autumn sun. Each man carried a long spear, though from what Harry could see at distance they were not wearing any heavy armour, suggesting to him that this was not some regular patrol. That was a hopeful thought, as the armed men bore down upon them atop their impressive steeds.

"Can any of you speak the language?" he asked the three Dwarves, to be answered by three shakes of the head.

"Most of those with whom we had contact spoke Westron," said Frór. "I know some few words, but I could not carry a conversation."

"Then let me do the talking," said Harry as he straightened up and waited for the riders to reach them. "I know Gethoede well enough to converse, and from what I remember the people of these lands speak something that sounds passingly similar. Or perhaps they will know Westron."

"Fethegest!" Called the lead rider, a powerful looking man with a dark scar across his nose and cheek. "Hwider don thu feran? For hwon don cuman to Geongburg?"

Harry couldn't be certain, but he thought the man was asking where it was they were travelling. The similarities with Gethoede were hard to draw upon when spoken so quickly by a native tongue. "We travel south," he said in Gethoede, his words spoken slowly and carefully, so that he might help the man understand what were probably unfamiliar words. "Do you speak Westron?"

"Waestron!" said the man in recognition. "I speak… small. Have weapon, you?"

"We do," said Harry, now in Westron, as he intentionally tried to keep his speech as simple as possible for the man. "Many dangers. Must have weapons."

"No weapon, no danger in Geongburg" said the man firmly. "Give, us."

"This is a grave—" began Flói as he rested his hand threateningly upon the haft of his axe, but before he could continue, Harry cut across his words.

"We are tired," he said the the horsemen's leader after silencing Flói with a look. "Weak. Long travel. No danger to you." He made a point of leaning tiredly upon his staff.

The man thought for a few moments before nodding slowly, clearly reluctant. "Need names. Who comes to Geongburg?"

Harry held his free hand. "I am Harry. I travel with Frór, Prince of Durin's Folk, Flói of Dwarrowdelf and Thórir the Wanderer." He pointed to each of the Dwarves in turn as he named them. "To whom do we speak?"

The man thought for a moment, before sliding gracefully from his steed which snorted and tossed its head. "I am Frumgar, Éofrea."

Now that he was at the same level as Harry and the Dwarves, albeit still much taller and broader than any of them he looked over them a little more favourably.

"Elfgar, hi eart werig," he said to one of the other riders. "Gewendan and cythan the we scael habban selegysts. Audofleda friclan to witen."

"Hit scael beon gedon," said the rider before pulling his horse around and riding with haste back towards the rough wooden gate of Geongburg.

Harry and his Dwarvish companions followed Frumgar as he led them back towards the town. Most of his remaining riders followed the group closely, their curious eyes following the Dwarves' every movement.

"I travelled through this place not seven years ago," Harry said to Frumgar as they walked. "When did you come to settle here?"

"Six years," said Frumgar. "From south, land freed from dark realm beyond mountains. New pasture for the horses."

The stilted speech was a frustration that Harry had allowed himself to forget in the years he'd spent with the Dwarves, almost all of whom spoke Westron with a natural skill. His memory of Gethoede had faded, it seemed, in his time among the Dwarves. He had, after-all, only had a few months of exposure to the language of the plains folk.

"Does anyone among your people speak Westron better than you?" he asked Frumgar, as politely as he could manage. Despite his efforts, though, it was rather blunt. He had spent too much time among Dwarves.

Frumgar did not seem to take offence. "Audofleda speaks Waestron, she teach me."

"Audofleda…" Harry muttered quietly to himself. He'd thought he'd heard it earlier, when Frumgar was directing one of his men to bear word to the town, and it had seemed passingly familiar at that moment. Where had he heard it before?

"Do you know this Audofleda Man?" asked Flói, who was stood closest to Harry, and heard his musings.

"Audofleda is mine wif," said Frumgar with a low growl, his hand upon the pommel of the unadorned, but doubtlessly sharp sword that hung from his belt.

"I apologise for my companion," said Harry quickly. "Flói often speaks without thought. He meant your wife no insult."

"He sceolde bewarian his tunge," muttered Frumgar, and the meaning was clear enough to Harry even with his dusty memories of the language. However, the man removed his hand from his sword, though the walk back to the town became much quieter after that exchange.

Soon, they passed the rickety gate and palisade into the town proper. Many men, women and children stood around and watched the Harry and his companions with mixed curiosity and wariness. He was glad to see though, that there was no hostility in their gazes. They wore simple clothes, of hard wearing fabric and earthy colours. Almost to a Man they had bright hair of gold, like the riders that had escorted them into the town. Only a small few had some other shade of hair.

The town was a chaotic mish-mash of buildings, each constructed roughly from wood and thatch. Now that he was closer Harry could see than a few of the buildings had been built more carefully, and from properly treated timbers. Here and there around the courtyard in which they stood were buildings with carefully carved horses' heads upon the gable roof beams.

Many horses were tied up all around the courtyard, and even more ran free in the folds outside the city. After travelling with the Rethlapa and living with the Dwarves among the mountains for so long, Harry had never seen so many horses.

"Eardstapa!" cried a voice as Harry was looking over the townspeople. The source was easy to find, for she was striding quickly towards him, a broad smile upon her face. Before she could reach him, however, she was intercepted by Frumgar who encased her in an enthusiastic hug.

"Ne nu, leof," she said as she pushed the much larger man off her. "Thes haeleth is Eardstapa."

Thórir edged closer to Harry as the exchange was going on. "What are they saying?"

"I… think they're talking about me," said Harry. "Audofleda knows of me."

Frumgar turned back to Harry, surprise written clearly upon his features. "Thes is haelend eower?"

Audofleda didn't answer and instead walked up to Harry and bowed low with her arm across her chest. "Our home is your home, Eardstapa."

Harry could not fail to remember another scene, now years distant, when a woman had pledged much the same to him, more, even, as her two children looked on. One of the children had been a girl with fierce blue eyes who had been willing to give away everything to the man who had saved her mother. That girl had been called…

"Audofleda," he said in realisation. "You had a brother, Audovald, and you mother was… I forget her name after so long."

"Lodihilde," said Audofleda as she stood up. "Come, come, you will find that our debt to you is not forgotten!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have some more language stuff. The people they have encountered, as some people may have realised, are the Éothéod; the fore-fathers of the Rohirrim (Éothéod means 'horse-people'). Frumgar, who is an actual canon character calls himself Éofréa which translates (in my muddy, not really accurate at all translation scheme) to 'horse lord'.
> 
> Flói and Frór share their names with dwarves in canon, though both are extremely minor characters. These characters are not the ones in canon. In canon there is a Frór who is brother to Thrór (Thorin's grandfather). I elected to use the name of a known Dwarf here because there is a certain symmetry between the fall of Khazad-dum and the much later fall of Erebor.
> 
> Flói's name is mentioned, I think, once in the Lord of the Rings and it is the name of one of the Dwarves of Balin's expedition to reclaim Moria. He died very early on in the attempt. I chose the name for a few reasons, but ultimately giving every Dwarf in history a unique name isn't really all that realistic.
> 
> The town of Geongburg is another place that is actually in canon, though not by the name of Geongburg (meaning Newtown). However, its canon name must have been given to it some time after its founding, so for the time being it has its current name. In time it will be known as Framsburg.


	14. And Cast Shade over Shadow

The largest hall of Geongburg rang with laughter and merriment. A great firepit was alight in the middle of the room, its warm glow keeping the cold night at bay. Cold winter rain had begun to fall over the plains, great sheets of water driven by a strong wind out of the north. Inside the Guthele of Geongburg, though, it was warm, and dry, and not a whisper of the wind could be heard over the sound of revelry.

Many great tables had been arrayed along the walls, and each table was so packed with Men and women that there was scarce enough space to reach their own food. That did not restrain their good cheer, though, and often their voices were raised in song as some epic history of their people was told for all to hear.

Harry's companions joined in with the gusto reserved to Dwarves alone. Their deep laughter would often rumble across the room, like a memory of the thunder from the storm that pitted its might against the immovable mountains upon the western horizon. They had less understanding of the words of the Éothéod than Harry, but they recognised great tales in their telling, and would listen with boisterous exuberance.

They told their own tales too. Not far from Harry, near the fire-pit, some of the Men of the Éothéod had congregated around Flói and Frór, for Flói was boasting of the riches and great valour of his people. Of great battles fought upon lost fields and under skies that had long fled into the West.

"Dragons!" said Flói, his eyes wide and his arms spread expressively. "They descended upon the gathered armies. Great beasts upon wing and upon claw, they tore through flesh and steel and stone with such ease as I may cleave through the air itself.

"The armies of Beleriand wavered, for their weapons could not pierce the beast's hides, and even the greatest forgings of the Dwarves could not turn aside their blows. A fear came upon them even as the shadows of drakes unnumbered filled the sky and the fearful power of the Balrogs pressed at their flanks. Tears, they shed in numbers beyond count as they were lost to hopeless despair. They hewed at the naked stone with their swords and spears, for they were helpless before their mighty enemies. The Elves fled, their weak stomachs turned by the loss of so many their kin, and their fear of the Dragonbrood taking their senses. They fled into a narrow pass, kettled and stayed by the walls of stone their death would come to them surely in a flurry of claw, and flame. The Men stood, though their poor steel was little better than the softest of cloths against the steely scales and rending claws."

Most of the Men nearby had quiesced, to better listen to Flói's tale, and Harry too found himself enthralled. He had seldom heard the Dwarf talk at such length and with such grace. Harry stepped closer to join the crowd around the Dwarf and glanced at Frór whom he now stood beside. The Dwarf smiled behind his beard.

"I know what it is you are thinking," said the Dwarf in his deep rumbling tones. "But you should not be so quick to judge Flói. It is not for nothing that I value his company."

"Evidently," Harry muttered, as he continued to listen to Flói's tale.

"He always was drawn to the old tales, to stories of battle and valour long forgotten to most Men," said Frór as he took an absent-minded gump from the rough tankard in his hand. "There are few older or more valorous than those told of the battles with Balkûn, whom the Elves call Morgoth, in the First Age."

"But then the Azaghâl stepped forward," Flói was saying, "King of the Dwarves of Belegost, and he stood before the first of the dragon-kin, Glaurung the Golden, with weapon in hand and declared that none of his brood would cross into the ravine wherein the Elves had fled. Axes cleaved upon scale, and even the hide of Glaurung could not turn aside the fury of the Dwarves. The beast howled and roared as its black blood spilt upon the ground to mix with the tears of the Elves and it struck out at the Azaghâl in its rage.

"The great claws tore through his armour like it was little more than the soft blanket of a newborn child and he was cast to the ground beneath the Father of Dragons. Over his broken body Glaurung stepped, intent on pursuing the Elves who had eluded him. But the Azaghâl was not spent. He wielded a dagger, such a small thing, the merest splinter before the might and size of Glaurung. With the last of his strength he drove that blade, nameless, and forged by no great smith of note, into the breast of the beast.

"Wounded, Glaurung howled in pain, and all who heard it were deafened by the wail. He fell upon the ground and writhed upon the stone, and so crushed the last breaths from the Azaghâl of Belegost; greatest of all the warriors of the Dwarves of old."

Flói lapsed into silence, and a quiet fell through the hall until the murmur of conversation returned. Harry turned to Frór.

"Is that tale true?" he asked.

Frór nodded. "It is. Of all the warriors of my people, the Azaghâl is the most storied. It is a tale told to all young Dwarfs."

Before Harry could continue that thread, one of the Men of the Éothéod Man raised his voice above all others, and began to recite a tale of his own. Harry listened to his tale, even without full understanding:

_Nap nihtscua,  
_ _northan sniwde,  
_ _hrim hrusan bond,  
_ _haegl feol on eorthan,  
_ _corna caldast._

_Ne bith him to hearpan hyge  
_ _ne to hringthege  
_ _ne to wife wyn  
_ _ne to worulde hyht  
_ _ne ymbe owiht elles  
_ _nefne ymb_ _ham arasian  
_ _ac a hafath longunge,  
_ _Eardstapa on widan feore._

Harry frowned as he heard the name that he'd been given and looked towards Audofleda who had come to stand nearby when the tale had begun in the telling.

"Audovald spoke of you often," she said before he could put voice to his query, and quietly enough that her voice could not be heard by anyone else, all of whom were listening as the man continued his recitation. "He penned a tale about you, the Wanderer, he named it. Eardstapa, in our tongue."

_Calde gethrungen  
_ _waeron his fet,  
_ _forste gebunden  
_ _caldum clommum,  
_ _thaer tha ceare seofedun  
_ _hat ymb heortan;  
_ _hungor innan slat  
_ _eorthewerges mod._

"Is that him reciting it?" Harry asked as he looked across the crowded hall at the young man who continued to speak in a slow and deliberate cadence. He could see little in him that had once been in the brave child he'd met all those years ago.

Audofleda shook her head gently, her eyes sad. "Audovald was with some riders, who went into the foothills west of here in search of the Orcs or Trolls that were burning the homesteads of our people. That was near two months ago, nothing has been heard of them since."

"I, I am sorry to hear that," said Harry, now ignoring the tale telling completely as he turned to look at Audofleda properly. "He was a strong boy, and brave. I have lost enough of my own family to know the pain you must feel."

"He was a Man," she said softly. "It was not for me to mother him any longer. If he met his fate in those accursed hills then I hope only that it was one worthy of song, even if none have the knowing to write it."

At that moment the poem came to an end, and Harry caught only the final few words.

_In tha ecan  
_ _eadignesse  
_ _thaer is lif gelong._

He did not have time to think on them, though, for almost immediately he found Flói before him, with a wide grin evident beneath his heavy beard. "And now it is the Wizard's turn!" he cried to the hall.

The response was immediate and enthusiastic. "Saga!" came the shout that echoed around the hall, soon to be joined by the drumming of tankards upon the long wooden feasting tables. Harry narrowed his eyes at the young Dwarf for a moment, and he tried to demure. "I have no tales fit for the company of your own, Flói. Merely small tales from a world so far removed from this one that it is as if a wall of pure night stands between the two."

Nonetheless, the chanting grew, and it was clear that the Men would not be deterred. After a few seconds, Harry raised his hands in surrender, an expectant hush fell as if by unshakable command.

"There is perhaps a tale I could tell," he said slowly. Most of the men and women in the hall could understand only a few of his words, but those who could passed them on in whispers to their friends.

"There is no great dragon in my tale," he said as he glanced at Flói. "Nor is there the artifice and craft of your own sagas. But it is a tale, and an old one at that."

He walkedthe few steps needed to reach the huge fire pit that dominated the middle of the hall, still surrounded by meats and other foods ready to be eaten. He was quiet for a moment as he thought of how best to tell his story. Just as whispers began to break out among his listeners, he began his telling.

"There once were three brothers," he began, his voice filling the eager silence, "who travelled a dark road together at night. Soon, they came to a river, a great seething torrent that would have swept any Man to his doom should he try to swim or ford it. But these were not any mere Men, the three brothers were Wizards, and they could bend _magic_ to their will. They drew forth their w— staffs, and in short moments a bridge grew out across the raging river and, pleased with their creation, the brothers began their crossing."

"But when they reached the halfway point they were waylaid by a dark figure, cloaked in night, who blocked their way." The great fire flickered and shadows flitted around the quiet room. "Death spoke then to the three brothers. He congratulated them on their skills, and their ability to weave the world about them with magic. He said that each of them had earned, through that skill, a prize; a gift from Death himself."

"The first brother, and eldest, sought fortune and vindication for past wrongs," said Harry. He paused for a moment in his telling and looked around the room to find that every man there was listening to his words. Even those who had been translating had fallen silent. Even the talkative and combative Flói had fallen into silence as the tale unfolded. Harry continued, "For though he was eldest, he was brother only in mind, not blood. So he asked for a weapon, one more powerful than any in existence, one that would prove his worth and his strength to his brothers. Death accepted the demand in silence, and summoned to himself a branch from one of the elder trees upon the banks of the river and he fashioned it into a wizard's staff for the man to wield. When he was done he handed the staff to the brother."

Harry paused for a moment, and the sound of the wind whistling through the thatch of the hall was all that could be heard. Then he continued.

"The second brother was prideful, but he also was hurting. For he had once had a woman, a woman who had been his world. She had died in times long past. And with her passing his world had become as grey and cold as the touch of Death himself. Where once he had seen beauty, now he could see only regret and loss. So he asked to be given the power to stymie Death, he asked for the power to bring the dead back from his cold clutches. Again, Death granted him his request. He stooped low and took from the banks of the river a single stone. He gave it to the brother and told him it would have the power to bring back even the dead."

Another pause crept around the Hall, and in the middle of the room the fire crackled, and spat a few burning motes into the air, which hung among the rafters like the stars amid the branches of the Wildholt.

"The third brother, and the youngest, then got his turn. Death turned to him and asked what it was he would take as his prize. The brother was humble, and he craved not glory, nor the power to spit in the eye of Death. He asked instead for something that would hide him from Death. Something that would allow him to go forth from that place assured in the knowledge that Death could not follow him. And Death paused at the request, but then, eventually, he reached up and removed his own cloak, and handed it to the brother."

Harry paused again and took a swig from a drink that had been placed by him by one of the Men.

"Then Death stood aside, and allowed the brothers to pass, for they were not to meet their fate there. Soon they came to a fork in the road, and their ways split. The first brother travelled on along his path until he came to the village of an old enemy. There he challenged him to a duel and with the Staff of Death as his weapon he prevailed with ease. That night he went to an inn, and there he boasted loudly his power and prowess, and how the staff he bore made him invincible."

There was a light of interest in Flói's eyes, echoed in the eyes of all the Men in the room. They could surely well understand the power such a weapon might grant.

"But that night, as he slept off the mead and the wine, another Wizard crept into his room and stole his staff. And then, just to be sure, he slit the first brother's throat, and as his lifeblood left him Death drew close at his side. So it was that the first brother died a quiet death, devoid of honour."

A ripple spread through his listeners, and Harry looked up to see Flói muttering to Thórir, his disapproval of the thief's cowardly act clear in his eyes. Thórir did not respond, but continued to gaze at Harry patiently.

"The second brother travelled farther, all the way to his home. There he took out Death's gift and called upon the spirit of his beloved. Such delight he felt when she appeared, in all the beauty of her life, that he immediately tried to embrace her. But he could not, for she was a faded thing, a pale memory of the girl he'd known, and his life separated him from her. Not for her the joy of life and love, she was sad and cold, like a fire viewed in a poor mirror.

"For years the brother languished in his home, as he clung to the memory of the girl he'd known. But his unfettered need for her gave her only pain, for she was not meant to remain in the land of mortals. Eventually, finally, in depression and grief, the second brother took his own life, to join her in eternity in Death's embrace."

Harry's voice faltered a moment, his mouth dry from talking. He did not take a drink, though, for he was near the end of his tale. He continued.

"Of the last brother, though, Death could find no trace. The cloak of Death did as he'd asked, and never could Death's wandering gaze find him, much though he searched. He lived his life in peace, untroubled by wars or terrible fates for away from the grasp of Death his life was his alone. Until, one day, when he had grown old and bent with age, and had raised children, and seen his children raise children, he removed his cloak. Then, as Death came at last to claim him, he passed the cloak on to his son, and he greeted Death as an old friend. They walked together, arm in arm, into the beyond, and the third brother stepped into his next adventure, beyond the veil of Death."

Harry fell silent at last, and coughed a moment before taking a welcome swig of the watery ale of the Éothéod. As he did so mumbled conversation returned to the room, soon followed by the cautious advance of the roistering that had filled the Hall before the story telling had begun.

"It was a good tale," said Thórir a little later. "Though a little light on valour and glory for most here, I think."

Harry shrugged. "It was not a hero's tale," he admitted. "I always thought it was a warning, more than anything. A lesson, perhaps?"

A grunt escaped his Dwarvish companion. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it is a children's tale."

"Sometimes I think you know me too well," said Harry as he smiled and clapped Thórir on the back. "A children's fable is exactly what it was, even if I did try to change the telling. I have few exciting stories of my own."

Thórir's silence was all the rejoinder that was needed.

o-o

"Let it be known, Harry Eardstapa, that me and mine renew the vow of my mother. You always will be welcome in the halls of the Éothéod for as long as my mother's blood runs in our people."

The very next morning, it was time for Harry and his companions to return to their trail. A single night in the warmth of the Éothéod's halls has not enough for Harry, but there was something more important than mere comfort at stake.

Many of the men and the women of the Éothéod had come to see them off, for they were no doubt still strange curios from the mysterious East. Audofleda stood in front of the companions, with Frumgar at her side and her young son Fram cradled in her arms. The Dwarves were just as eager to leave as Harry himself, and so it was he that was left to say their good-byes.

"You have done me and my companions a great kindness by taking us in, to feast amongst you, if even for only a single night." Harry bowed, and gestured towards Thórir, Frór and Flói. "We are all grateful. What debt was owed is, I think, paid."

Audofleda shook her head firmly. "No, it is not. You are not of our blood, yet you saved us when our need was greatest. Only like may wipe out like. Until me or my children can aid you in the manner that you aided me and mine, the debt stands, and there can be no cheapening of the gift you gave."

A rueful smile spread across Harry's face as he accepted her words. "Then a wise man should accept his defeat with grace. Perhaps, one day, you or your children"—he nodded at the slumbering form of Fram, whom Audofleda held in her arms—"will be able to repay the debt. Forgive me if I do not look forward to it, though."

The lady of the Éothéod chuckled at that, and her husband leaned in close to whisper something into her ear. A moment later, he too let out a loud, barking laugh. "Sons will strong. Not fear you," he said with a broad smile splitting his scarred face.

"Then I shall not fear," said Harry, his head inclined respectfully. "But now, I see my companions are eager to be away."

"Then go, Eardstapa," said Audofleda. "Let more songs be sung of your passing."

Harry turned then, and without looking back, strode out towards where his companions were gathered. At his coming they too turned, and all four of them strode once again away from the comforts of a home.

"Men do like their good-byes," said Thórir after some distance had been put between them and their once hosts. "We thought you might be there until the sun was nearing noon."

"I do not think a Dwarf can pass that judgement." Harry shook his head and smiled at his friend. "Especially not one who would rather follow a Man across the plains of Rhûn, even as winter draws in, rather than say good-bye."

"The plains in winter hold no fear," said Thórir. "It is what will greet us in the darks beneath Zirakzigil that worries me."

"A Dwarf, afraid of the dark?" asked Harry, his eyes narrowed.

Frór then joined the conversation. "You would do well to heed his words. If such darkness holds fear for Dwarves then it is only because we know what it may hide from sight."

"I did not see anything of the sort in Ironhaunt, or Manarul, or any of the minor holds in the Eastern Mountains."

"Even Ironhaunt is but a hovel when compared to the first and greatest city of Dwarrowdelf," said Frór, his eyes distant. "Its Halls run for leagues upon leagues, hidden beneath the Misty Mountains. The Mines delved deep, into the very roots of the world. There we found more than the riches which we sought. There are... Caves, in the long dark beneath the mountain, and they are hewn not by the Dwarves."

"Orcs, then?

Frór shook his head. "They were not cut by the Goblins, nor by any other living thing. Things gnaw upon the roots of the world, Harry. Nameless things that we Dwarves speak not of, save in the full light of day. My grandfather heard them, he said, when he walked the Endless Stair."

"Your grandfather," said Harry, his brow furrowed as he reminded himself of Frór's relation to the line of Kings. "King Durin?"

"When a King of Durin's Folk is crowned, they walk the Endless Stair, from the very bottom to the very top," said Flói, when Frór did not respond. "They must travel the deepest pits of the Dwarves, mined out by our forefathers long ago. From stone to sky they must climb, to the very top of Durin's Tower, upon the highest peak of Zirakzigil. They—"

"He told me once," said Frór, seemingly unheeding that he had interrupted Flói's words. "The chewing, gnawing, of nameless things can ever be heard in the deepest pits. Some say they are the souls of dead Dwarves, digging towards the surface to find the sun that once warmed their backs. Others that they are mere beasts, and that it is our fear that gives them their terrible form in the darkness."

"And it is one of these creatures that you seek to battle," grunted Thórir.

Flói immediately spoke up, "No. Durin's Bane is not of those things. It is a beast of fire and terrible, furious light. The deep things fear the light, for it burns them like fire. They could not endure his fire any more than we Dwarves. The Durin's Bane is something altogether different, though I have never seen it, only heard its wroth described."

"Flói speaks true," said Frór, his voice returned to more normal tones. "It is not one of those unknowable things, and that is well for us, for there is no fighting the dark of a night without stars."

There was so much he had yet to learn, Harry realised. It seemed that with every year, and with every journey, that he learned of something new within his new world. Still, though, even after close to a decade, he couldn't help but try and connect the unfamiliar to the familiar.

Ghosts, perhaps? Poltergeists? Or maybe something more dangerous. Durin's Bane, at least, sounded familiar. He had been taught, once, of a Chilean magical beast called a 'cherufe', a large creature composed of living magma, with power over fire. Perhaps the Dwarves had delved so deep that they had found the remains of a volcano, long extinct, and awoken something like it? They were dangerous, but if they could be parted from their magma home they would quickly solidify. More importantly, their eyes, which were said to burn with a cold light even after the creature had died, were sometimes used in wand cores. It was a tenuous hope, but it was the best he had.

The nameless things were something else altogether. He knew of nothing from his own world that sounded alike, but he took small comfort from the fact that they could not be as bad as dementors, and even if they were, he had no intention of delving so deeply below the mountain in his quest.

So they continued South, and stuck close to the river on their journey. There were, in places, a few settlements made by Men. Some welcomed the strange travellers, while others turned them away. None attacked them, and for that they were all grateful.

In time they came upon a road that Frór said had been made by the Elves long ago for travel between the Woodland Realm in the great forest to their east and the Elves who lived west of the Misty Mountains.

Harry stood upon the road, and looked westward, towards the home of the first person he'd grown to call friend since his arrival in the world. He thumbed the hilt of the Elvish dagger, which he had taken to wearing upon his belt. It had been so easy, then, to walk away on his fruitless search for a path home in the East. Had he known then what he knew now, perhaps he would have followed her advice and sought the counsel of her Lord, though he had forgotten his name.

"She will think you dead by now," said Thórir, seemingly reading Harry's mind. "Men and Dwarves are but blinks in the life of Elves."

"Of whom do you speak?" asked Flói as Harry turned his head at last from the western horizon and continued his trek southwards, the Dwarves at his side.

"I once met an Elf from Rivendell," said Harry. He did not feel any need to tell them of his time in Angmar. "Daewen, was her name. She gave me this dagger." He flicked the dagger from its sheath with a practised movement.

"I had wondered," said Frór. "It did not look like it was of Dwarvish or Mannish make."

"She said it was made by the master smith of Rivendell," said Harry as he watched light flow along the silver blade. He slid it back into the sheath, then smiled as he remembered his friend. "She was not overly fond of Dwarves."

The Dwarves all chuckled with cynical amusement. "That is no surprise," said Frór. "There has long been bad blood between her kind and mine. Ever since one of their Kings stole the Khazâd ai-Khagsmesem."

That was not how Daewen had told the story, and there was a part of Harry that wished to hear the story from one who was not blinded by the wrongs committed against them. He knew, though, that there was little to be gained in pursuing the topic with his companions. Flói, at least, would defend his people to the bitterest end.

Two weeks of travel later and at last the companions were nearing Khazad-dûm. They had passed the Gladden River with no difficulty, though Flói had made much of his suspicion that they were being watched by people who were hidden among the reeds of the Gladden Fields. Neither Harry, nor either of the other two Dwarves, had seen anything though, and even when Flói had tried to lure the watchers out with threats of violence, there was no sign of anything living.

They had come, at last, to the foothills beneath the East Gate of Khazad-dûm. Beneath them and to the west was a great wood, which seemed to be aflame in orange and gold as the autumn chill fell upon the trees that grew there.

"The Elves there call it Lórinand," said Frór, "we had dealings with them only rarely. Their King, Amroth, has no love of our people."

"It reminds me a little of Wildholt," said Harry, more to Thórir than the other two, who had never looked upon that wood in autumn. He turned back to Frór. "They did not aid you, when Durin's Bane was found?"

"Ha!" Flói scoffed. "They would not aid us even if their precious trees were burning, and Durin's Bane marching upon them. They would have fled, they _did_ flee."

"It was said that many of their number fled south," said Frór. "To their havens at Edhellond, or Mithlond. I have heard that even their King has fled the darkness of Moria."

"If the beast as terrible as you say, then I would not blame them. Even your people were forced to flee, were you not?" asked Harry.

"We at least fought," said Flói. "We fought for our homes, and for the riches of our people. The Elves have always fled in the face of challenge, where Dwarves are stone, Elves are wind, always ready to move on if adversity comes to them."

Once again, Harry felt it was wise to drop the subject. He had seen Daewen in action, and though he had no doubt she was a skilled warrior, and capable of taking on most foes, she would not have lasted long in magical battle.

Enelyë had power, of that he had no doubt. He could still remember her otherworldly presence. Even she, though, would have been little aid against a magical foe. She was like an old woman in a younger body. Úda had had wisdom, and even a kind of power too, but she was no fighter.

In truth, he was not sure he was enough of a fighter either, without a true wand. He had hope, though.

It would have to be enough.

o-o

"No fire," said Thórir that night, as they camped in the Dimrill Dale, upon the banks of the Mirrormere and within sight of the Great Gates of Khazad-dûm. "With the Dwarves gone from these lands, and the Elves too departing, I would not be surprised if Goblins have taken up residence in the upper halls. It would be best if they cannot see us coming."

"Will they be a problem?" Harry asked, as he peered up at the pale outline of Zirakzigil in the moonlight. It seemed as if stars sparkled among its stones, gems and precious metals that ran in rivulets through the stone of the mountain. He had seldom battled Goblins for they were rare in the Red Mountains, but he remembered some from his time in Carn Dûm, and he could well remember the devastation they'd left in the lands to the north after Angmar had fallen.

"They are few in number this far south," said Frór. "And I do not think Durin's Bane would suffer them easily in any case. Thórir's suggestion is wise, though. Even if they are but a few, they could easily block the gates to us, if forewarned of our coming."

"Will the Gates not be closed?"

"They will be. We closed them," said Frór. "But the Gates will not keep the children of Durin from his domain. They will be open to us."

"The danger," said Flói, "is that the Goblins may fortify the entrance with archers or spearmen. Even a single skilled warrior may hold those Gates against an army. Goblins may not be skilled, but if they are there, they will be more numerous than us."

"What of the other paths?" said Harry. "Is there another way into the city?"

"There are the Doors of Durin, the West-gate, and it is well hidden from prying eyes," said Frór. "But it is on the other side of the mountains, and the Redhorn Pass is a cruel thing even in the kind warmth of summer. I would not risk it so late in the year. There are no other gates."

"Then we will make for the Gates tomorrow morning, before the sun has risen." Harry looked around at his companions and they each agreed to his plan without argument. Flói, especially, seemed impatient to return to his home.

"I must tell you," said Harry eventually, as he picked up the staff that was laying at his side and ran his hands over the smooth stone, "that I do not know what we will find beneath that mountain. I do not know if we pick a battle that we cannot hope to win, but I think it is a battle we _need_ to win, and so we will fight it anyway."

"I am with you, Harry," said Thórir. He said no more, and Harry had known him long enough that no more needed to be said.

"You are a Wizard," said Flói, seemingly ignorant of Harry's self-doubt. "We all have heard tales of the power of you, or your brothers. I do not fear the deeps."

Frór was more observant, and he caught Harry's eye for a moment before he simply nodded. To Harry the message was clear. He too was with him.

"Then you all should get some sleep," said Harry. "I will take the first watch."

As his three companions wrapped themselves warmly in their bedrolls, Harry stared up at the mountain that may very well decide his fate. Stars still glittered on its surface, reflecting the light of the full moon in the clear night sky.

He fancied that he could feel the presence of the creature within. It wasn't strong, he did not think the creature had felt his approach, which was good. But the power was there, and felt like an echo of the power he'd felt during his brief time under the boughs of Mirkwood. It was a malign power, and he could feel within it a burning hatred for all things that walked beneath the face of the sun.

He grasped his staff tight in his hands. As they had come nearer and nearer to his goal his doubts had assailed him more and more. What could he hope to achieve against a creature that had driven the greatest nation of the Dwarves before it? He closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply, as he strove to control his doubts.

It did not matter what little chance they had, he tried to remind himself. Any chance was better than none, and after years in this world, he had all but lost hope of returning home. Whatever darkness he would find beneath the mountain, it could not be nearly so complete as the darkness of the dungeons beneath Carn Dûm.

His grip loosened upon his staff and he ran a hand down its length. Where his hand passed it left a trail of lights like diamond dust in the dark stone.

He was not entirely without strength. Whatever power it was the resided below the mountain would have to be ready for a fight.

o-o

Early the next morning, before the first rays of sun had crept over the distant eastern horizon, Harry and his companions prepared themselves for the journey into the waiting breast of Khazad-dûm.

The Great Gates of Dwarrowdelf stood, surrounded by night-shadows and the dark stone of the mountain, featureless in the gloom. The distant peak of Zirakzigil far above glittered in the first rays of the morning sun.

Frór stepped forward and laid a hand against the stone and then spoke in a quiet voice, "Ijnid."

The ground beneath their feet rumbled and the huge doors scraped slowly open to reveal only a black abyss beyond. Harry and the Dwarves stepped forward, Thórir and Flói lit two lanterns to light their way through the dark halls, and Harry allowed Frór and Flói to lead them onwards.

The air was thick with all manner of scents. There was the stale smell of air that had not seen the light in many moons, as well as the memory of the oily smell of most Dwarven keeps. And beneath them all, a faint smell of smoke, that clung to everything.

The Halls of Durin were as quiet as a tomb, for that is what Khazad-dûm had become. There were no bodies, not so close to the surface, but it was a tomb nonetheless. They made their way through dark halls and silent passages until they came at last to a great chasm in the rock and suddenly there was light.

Fires burned in the deeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tale told by Flói is an approximation of a story from the Silmarillion. Known to the Elves as the Nirneath Arnoediad (Battle of Unnumbered Tears) it was a crushing loss for the Elves, Dwarves and Men who fought there. 'The Azaghal' is referred to simply as 'Azaghal' in the Silmarillion, but I have restyled it as an honorific, rather than a proper name. Dwarves to not tell their 'inner names' to any non-Dwarves, and Azaghal having a name in Khuzdul does not match with this taboo. So For the purposes of this story, I have gone for the interpretation that 'Azaghal' (meaning warrior) is actually a title given to that Dwarf after his battle with Glaurung.
> 
> The story told by the Man is taken in parts from the Old English poem 'The Seafarer'. I have reworked it a little, and selected specific passages that are more pertinent to Harry's situation, but the actual detail isn't terribly important. Funnily enough there is another Old English poem actually called 'The Wanderer'. I did not use that one as Tolkien himself used it as the inspiration for his own poem, known as 'The Lament of the Rohirrim' (Where now the horse and the rider?) which is about Eorl. I didn't want to tread on his toes so early, so I used a different poem as the basis here.
> 
> Harry's telling of the Tale of the Three brothers is, of course, not completely canon accurate. But please remember that he has been in Middle-earth for close to eight years by this point. His memory isn't perfect, and he was also embellishing it a little for dramatic effect.
> 
> Khazâd ai-Khagsmesem - The Necklace of the Dwarves. Known as the Nauglamir in Sindarin, and an important event in the Silmarillion, and the fall of Doriath.
> 
> Lorinand is the name of Lothlorien at this time. It has a number of names over the course of the third age. At this point Galadriel and Celeborn have not quite taken Lordship of it, it is not until after that that it becomes known as Lothlorien.
> 
> 'Ijnid' - 'Open' in Khuzdul.


	15. Battled Flame in Darkness

The long Hall Harry and his companions had been walking had come to an abrupt end, for they had come to an overlook upon a great chasm, and below them; a bridge.

The bridge was narrow, only wide enough for a party to cross in single file. It swooped over the abyss below in a great arch, rising more than fifty feet at its apex. Beneath it, the abyss stretched on beyond sight, its farthest depths concealed beneath the thick smoke that belched from many flames that burned near the edge of sight.

The whole chamber, and the great Hall beyond, were bathed in the baleful red light, as if awash with the blood of the Dwarves who had once fallen in defence of their home.

The Hall beyond was almost impossibly tall. Two ranks of columns, greater than any tree, and constructed of smooth black stone which seemed to shine blood red in the half-light, lined the Hall. They soared up towards the vaulted ceiling and there spread out into a great branching web of stone boughs and branches.

But the light of the fires was not the only light. Even as they looked on, the sun outside mounted the horizon, or the clouds masking it cleared, and the Hall they had just walked was lit all along it's length by shining rays. The far distant first Hall, with its rafters filled with sky-lights, had been bathed in light. By some cunning artifice of mirror and glass, the Dwarves had channeled the light from the far distant sky into the depths of the mountain and they now streamed into the Hall beyond. The sunlight warred with the darkness and for a short distance, at least, burned off the shadows that clung amid the rafters. Behind was bathed in shining gold; yet before and below them was still wreathed in darkness and flame.

Gems, and veins of purest silver glittered and shone in the great pillars as the sunlight rushed to fill the darkness.

"The Second Hall," said Frór reverently. "Delved by Durin himself, long ago. It has been too long since I looked upon the sight of Durin's Hall at dawn."

Turning away from the sight, Harry peered over the ledge, into the seething darkness and billowing smoke that filled the chasm, like a river of oily shadow, untouched by the light above. "What of the fires?"

Frór turned back towards Harry, then moved closer to the precipice to look down into the darkness below. "Those are not of Dwarvish make," he said , his brows furrowed. He looked towards Flói. "Could Durin's Bane have done this? Filled the lower Deeps with fume and flame?"

The fire below did lend some credence to Harry's theories on the nature of the beast they hunted. If the Dwarves had delved into some long stoppered magma chamber deep below the heart of the mountain, then perhaps they could have awoken a cherufe that had lived within.

From what he could remember of his lessons, they lived all things burning, and sought to cover all their domain in flames or magma. If one had taken control of Khazad-dûm, then Harry would expect the lower deeps to be consumed. He had not truly envisioned the enormity of Khazad-dûm.

The Hall they had just walked, now bathed in light, was so long that he could only barely catch sight of the door at the far end, and the Hall before them stretched far onwards into blackest gloom. Below them the Deep fell away to depths unknown, and high above them, the stone of the mountain enclosed a space that could have swallowed Hogwarts' Great Hall many times over.

"How many of these Halls are there?" Harry asked, as he thought of Ironhaunt in the East, with its twelve great Halls and countless corridors and other delvings.

"The Third Hall lies beyond, and the Fourth Hall beyond that," said Frór as he looked out of the domain that had once been ruled by his family. "Above are the Levels, seven of them, in total, each with their own Halls. Below are the remaining Deeps, and of those there are another six. Then there are the Mines below them. There also are the other delvings, which run beyond count on every level."

Harry glanced at the Dwarf, almost disbelieving. The serious gaze he found there told him that he was wrong to doubt; the Halls of Khazad-dûm were beyond anything he knew.

"And _all_ of that now lies empty?" he asked.

"We held the Deeps for but a few months, then most of our people fled to the Blue Mountains, or Grey." In that moment Frór seemed much older than his years. "The rest of the City was shortly lost, but those warriors amongst us still tried to hold our kingdom; we defended the delvings near the West Gate until half our number had been taken, but there was no victory there, only death. When my uncle was claimed by the beast, and with him Durin's Axe, we lost all hope."

"It seems to me as if we will have much searching ahead of us," said Harry, quite suddenly realising the difficulty of his proposition. He looked between Frór and Flói. "Do you have a suggestion of where to start?"

"The beast oft stayed within the lower Deeps during the day," said Flói. "Only when night came, and light fled the higher Halls did it venture into the Levels of the city."

"Yet neither of you have seen it?" said Harry.

"Few who saw it lived," said Frór, and he shrugged. "Those who did said it took the form of a Man, but taller than any Man they had ever seen. They said that shadows were its herald, and that its tread left the very stone itself blackened and cracked. They said that fires followed in its wake, and rifts opened up at its bidding to spew flame and impenetrable smoke. Its eyes, they said, shone red with a hatred that could sear the very soul of all whom it looked upon."

Harry restrained a shudder, and instead squared his shoulders and looked down at the narrow bridge that would bear them into Khazad-dûm proper.

"In that case," he said after some thought. "I think we should prepare more fully for what is to come. I have some ideas that may aid us, but I think we shall have to return to the Dimrill Dale to ready them. It is clear, at least, that there is no great force of Orcs awaiting us in these tunnels."

Thórir, who had been quiet since their entrance beneath the mountain, understood what Harry planned immediately. "Your concoctions?"

"Exactly," said Harry, his mind made up. "I think I can perhaps make some kind of freezing potion, or maybe some kind of water bomb that may cause the creature pause. Do you all have gourds that you might spare for this purpose?"

Flói and Frór glanced at each-other for but a moment before they acceded. Frór spoke from them both. "We do, though not many."

"Any few will do," said Harry before turning back towards the way towards the Great Gate. "I think I have a plan, but it will take wit and not a little luck to pull off."

The journey back out into the light took little time, and no sign was seen of any of the creatures that may have taken to calling Khazad-dûm home in the Dwarves absence.

"I need you to search out winter flowers," said Harry, once they had entered to cold bright sunlike of the Dimrill Dale. "Berries, too. And any other plants that have been bitten by the night frosts."

Thórir nodded firmly. He had never pretended to understand how it was that Harry could create the potions he did, but he had long ago become accustomed to Harry's strange requests in that area. Frór and Flói were less sure, as they had known him only a few weeks.

"What worth will flowers, or berries, or a few dead twigs have against a fire that may burn without fuel?" asked Flói.

"You will soon see," said Thórir as he turned towards the Dimrill Stair which laid against the flanks of Zirakzigil. "You have seen what his other potions wrought for the Dwarves we met in the shadow of the Grey Mountains."

"Healing salves and potions are one thing," said Flói, doubt still clear in his tone. "The power to undo this beast is entirely another."

Beneath his frown, Harry's eyes were serious. "If you will not trust me," he said firmly, "then I would ask that you do not follow me into Khazad-dûm tomorrow. I can ill afford your doubt in this battle." He looked at Frór then. "We all must be certain of this path before we take the next step, for there will be no turning back when we do."

In Frór's eyes there was an understanding, and he laid a hand upon Flói's shoulder and met his eye. Some communication passed between the old friends in that moment and, when it was passed, Flói returned his gaze to Harry.

"I am with you," he said. With that, he turned to set out in his search for the materials Harry had requested.

Harry called after them all as they walked away, "And if you see anything strange, or noteworthy, then bring it too. I will hope to begin my work ere the sun sets."

With that, they all set off in different directions. Harry headed first for the Great Gates of Khazad-dûm from whence they had came, for he had seen that the huge doors of impossible silver had been engraved with words in many tongues, and some magic in them spoke to him.

He gazed up at the doors, which towered over him, a dozen times his own height, and tried to make sense of the runes carved there. Many languages, in as many scripts were present there, and only one or two could Harry recognise.

There was Khuzdul, of course, in the Cirth script that Suthri had once tried to teach Harry, but in vain. Then Elvish, in both flowing Tengwar and the runic Cirth. Then more languages, in line upon line followed. Some were in Cirth, some in Tengwar, and others still were in scripts that Harry had never seen.

He could not understand most of them, but there too were written words in Westron, using the Cirth runes:

_The Lord of Moria dwelleth within. He who sits upon the Throne of Durin commands to leave, all those who would bring strife to the Kingdom of Durin's Folk. No darkness may become the Halls of Durin._

Harry stepped up to the Great Doors, and could feel within them the protectiveness that the words spoke of. More than that, though, was the shadow of threat that bloomed from the great runes near the very top of the Doors. They were not words, just single symbols, but Harry could feel within them a great power.

Something of that essence would surely be of use in their battle with Durin's Bane. Surely the beast could not have gained entrance to the city had its only path been through these doors. Perhaps these doors alone explained why the beast had never left the deep Halls to burn the woods of Lórinand to the east.

Harry looked around for any stones that might have come loose from the doors, but even as he did so he knew it was to be a fruitless search. The stone of the doors was smooth and flawless, and almost warm to the touch despite the chill winter air; the silver metal that could be found in such quantities throughout Khazad-dûm was so perfect in its gleam that it was as if it had been polished just a few hours before Harry's coming. He had heard of the Dwarves' mithril, but he hadn't thought it so wondrous as this. It made silver look like the dullest pig-iron in comparison. More than that, though, its mere presence felt like a balm.

He would only need a small amount, a few flakes of the stone would fulfill his purpose. He walked a small distance away to find a suitable stone. The mountainside into which the gates had been cut were not so untouched by the weather, and he quickly found a fist sized stone that could serve as a hammer. After returning to the gate and laying his staff aside, he stood at the very corner and hefted the stone in his hand and rolled his shoulders.

He swung the stone with every ounce of his strength, the shock of the impact sent waves of pain up his arm and into his shoulder. He dropped the stone and span away clutching his wrist as he fought the urge to swear. After the pain waned to a mere throb, he turned back to the Gates and inspected the place he'd struck.

The only evidence of his attempt was some white dust, crushed from the hammer stone he'd used and which now had a crack running all the way through it. He wiped the dust away, and the stone of the door was completely unscarred, not even the smallest chip had been knocked out of the corner.

He suspected that Daewen's dagger would fare no better. Even a proper hammer, if they had one, would probably make no noticeable dent on the seemingly untouchable Gates. Perhaps his staff, if he could move himself to magic, would be enough.

After turnings to the place where he'd laid it, he held it in both hands, and raised it high above his head. The Door, and the mountain above seemed to loom over him all the more in that moment, he hesitated.

This was not the way. If he wished for the proper effect from his potion, whatever magic that was in the door had to be working willingly with him, he could not force it. He lowered his staff to the ground again, and felt over the stone with one hand, caressing it as he had seen Lofar do, years ago.

There was something there. As he ran his hands over the stone, he felt the slightest imperfection, then, miraculously, he realised that it was a tiny fissure in the stone, and in it was a loose flake of the unbreakable rock. Gently, he teased it out of the fissure, and held it in the palm of his hand. He couldn't help but smile, it was rare indeed that his life made things so easy.

He stored the flake away in one of the small glass vials he'd been gifted by Lofar upon his departure from Ironhaunt. The quartz crystal chimed quietly as the stone fell within, a sound which seemed to mirror the shimmering crystals that shone in the golden, late morning sun.

His search was not yet done, though. For he had much of the rest of the morning and afternoon for his search. He scoured the Dale, up and down the shores of Mirrormere he searched, up to the very roots of the mountain where began the Dimrill Stair on its climb towards the Redhorn pass high above. Further down the valley he ventured, along the banks of the Silverlode, which burbled its way merrily towards the distant forest of Lórinand.

There were few plants that drew his fancy in his search. With winter drawing in, there were few green things growing in the high foothills of the Misty Mountains. What few plants had survived the frosts were stunted, hardy things, which did not have the verve that Harry knew he would need his idea was to work.

The sun set early in the Dimrill Dale in winter. The mountains above choked the light that would have entered the valley, and cast great dark shadows across the land as the sun became lower. When the sky darkened, Harry met his companions again, upon the shores of Mirrormere, and he set to work. Thórir sat nearby and sharpened his blades, while Frór and Flói sat close enough to watch, though they made an effort not to be _seen_ to be watching.

Much of what they had brought him was of little use. Twigs, weeds, stones and the bones of a long-dead deer that had once grazed the grass of the Dale until old-age, perhaps, had taken it. Harry knew that while they could work for some potion, they would not work for that he planned. Most of it was useless, but not all of it.

Flói, especially, had impressed Harry with his daring. In the afternoon he had ventured into Khazad-dûm again, though not to any great depth, and had sought out some pots of the pots and bottles that had been left by the Dwarves in their haste to flee. Most had been plundered by opportunists, but a few of the empty or chipped flasks yet remained.

Frór had found some beautiful golden flowers, alike to bluebells from Harry's home, but with petals of pale gold. Frór said that they were called Mallos in the Elvish tongue, and that it was rare to see them flowering so early. There also were some pale white flowers which he said were known to bloom all year round, but he could not remember their name.

Thórir had found some plants that Harry preferred to use for his healing draughts, and Harry thought he was perhaps dropping a hint with that choice. He had found one wonder, though. Athelas, the plant he'd first encountered with Daewen, and which had created such an incredible potion. It grew not in the East, but here, in the mountains, he had found more of it. He had scarce been able to contain his excitement at seeing the delicate leaves among Thórir's collection. He suspected it might lend something very useful indeed to his potion.

He began with a low heat, and with a small amount of the mirror-clear water from the lake, for the potion would have to have the strength to fight those flames. He waited until it had come to a gentle simmer, before he started adding his ingredients. He had to balance the grandness and vitality of the golden winter blooms with the simple purity of the white, which would serve to drive away evil, the concealed potential of some of the bulbs that Flói had been able to find proved to be the perfect source for that balance. It was no easy mixture, for he wished to produce an explosion, of sorts, but an explosion that did not burn. Trying to use flame against a creature of fire and darkness was a losing endeavor. He instead had to combat that with light, and with cold. That was where the tiny chip of stone came in. Powdered and added to the mixture it added a protective spirit; indomitable and steadfast, and not driven by the fire of life, but instead a purity of purpose.

He took the mixture off the fire then, and started working on lowering the temperature of the explosion that would result. A little snow, from the upper reaches of the stair, was added then, and some more of the petals of the white flower too, for there still was too much heat within the mixture. Finally, he added a few leaves from the Athelas Thórir had brought back, as he hoped that its healing influence might extend all the way to Khazad-dûm itself. As he did so the mixture went the deep blue of a clear sky in winter, and he knew he had it.

As he poured the completed potion into the stoppered glass bottles that had been brought back by Flói, and as he did so a chill mist rose up and curled among the evening eddies.

"This, I hope, will give us a weapon against the beast," said Harry as he handed a couple of filled flasks to each of the Dwarves. "It will freeze, and burn at the same time; like the very worst frost-bite you could imagine. It should be very effective indeed against the creature's fires. Make sure you do not splash yourself. It should not kill you, it may not even harm you, but I cannot be sure."

"This concoction will make the beast vulnerable?" asked Flói as he peered at the fathomless blue within one of the flasks.

"I think so," said Harry. "I hope so."

"You are not sure?"

"I am not," Harry admitted. "I cannot be sure. I believe I know what manner of creature it is we mean to face, and I think that these bombs will give it pause, but I could be mistaken."

"Whatever hope you have, whatever hope this potion gives us, even if it should prove to be a fool's hope, it is more than we had when first the beast arose from the Deeps," said Frór, and Flói nodded his head firmly in agreement.

Harry smiled, and some of the doubts that had been growing on him with every step closer to Khazad-dûm melted away. "I think you will find that I offer much more than a fool's hope. But come, it soon will be time to sleep, so that we might be ready for any battle tomorrow may hold, and I still have some more potions to make, it has been a long time indeed since I had Athelas among my ingredients, I do not want it to go to waste!"

o-o

The next morning they again entered into the shadows beneath Zirakzigil, and this time, Harry was much more content with their preparation.

They had his potions, which should freeze the beast solid, if only briefly, and would allow his companions to get a few good strikes in. He still did not carry a full-sized sword, as he had never seen much need to learn the correct use of one and carrying a weapon one did not know how to use was a mistake that many a dead man had made.

They walked the long corridors between the first Hall and the Bridge in near silence. None of them wanted to alert the beast before they were ready for it, and so all communication between them was done in Iglishmêk, the Dwarven sign language.

As with many things, the Dwarves in the Red Mountains had been loath to teach Harry the language in much depth, but Thórir had demonstrated some of the signs, enough that Harry could understand danger signals, and directions.

The dark corridors stretched on and on through the darkness beneath the mountain, and the only sounds to accompany them were those of their own passing, as if the darkness beyond the lanterns and mirror-lights drank all sound.

Flói was leading them, for he and Frór knew the tunnels and hidden ways of the city better than Harry or Thórir, and Flói would not suffer his Prince to stand at the fore while they hunted the beast that had so laid waste to the line of Durin. They came at last and again to the Bridge over the Abyss, and found that much had changed.

The fires below had been quenched, and now depths of the Abyss were lost in uttermost black. The shafts that had been cut through the living rock of the mountain, to siphon and guide the sun into the city were dark, even though the sun outside shone bright in the winter morning.

Harry caught Thórir's eye as Frór and Flói stared across at the inky blackness of the Second Hall. No words or signs were needed to communicate the understanding.

They were expected.

His hand gripped his staff with renewed strength, and Harry toyed with the idea of lighting the cavern around them with his own light, more piercing than the too-feeble light of the lanterns, which seemed to wither in the all-consuming blackness. Instead, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper; "I will take the lead across the bridge. If we are to be ambushed, then surely that would be the most likely place."

With a rapid signal from his hands, Frór agreed, and they set off up the narrow stairs to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. They were old, and the Dwarves had supplied them with no railings or safeties. The Bridge was to be the final defence before an attacking force made the city, and it had been made intentionally unsafe for any who would try to reach and cross it without heed for their own safety. Slowly, carefully, his party ascended the many steps to the bridge just one level above.

When, shortly, they reached the Bridge, Harry felt a breeze about him. It seemed to be coming from the Dimrill Dale, through tunnels and shafts unseen, and whistled as it descended into the darkness below, like the slow inhalation of a sleeping god, as is the mountain itself was preparing itself for what was surely to come.

He took his first step onto the Bridge, his staff raised in both hands so as to ward off any attack that might come. None did. Another step, and still no ambush descended. Step after step, foot beyond foot, he crossed the Bridge, always waiting, dreading the attack that was surely to come. None did. With every step he was sure that some great beast would rise from the sucking, breathing Abyss below to consume them in flame and darkness. None did.

One-by-one they stepped off the Bridge and into the Second Hall where huge pillars ran in ranks into the darkness.

Harry looked to his companions, each showing in their faces the same relief he felt. "I—"

A roar arose from the deeps behind them, and a great smell of brimstone enveloped them, a crack opened in the ground not feet from the bridge and from that crack spewed flames of such fierce heat that they all had to jump away from it or be consumed.

They scrambled to their feet, and stood back-to-back and peered into the dark Halls, now stained red by the terrible flames.

Still nothing came for them but the roar of the fires which cut them off from their return. After what felt like an age, Harry at last lowered his staff and eased his defensive posture. "I think it is unsure," he said.

"Or it is toying with us," said Thórir as he too put up his weapon.

Harry looked to Frór. "If it will not come to us, then we shall have to go to it. Where is it likely to be hiding."

"It always seemed to love the dark, for the Deeps were ever its home," said Frór.

"Would it have remained there?" Harry wondered. "The whole mountain is now its domain."

"The fires of yesterday were burning in the deeps, surely that is a sign that it is below us?" said Flói.

"But they do not burn there now," Thórir pointed out.

Harry was quiet for a long time as he considered their options. Khazad-dûm and its many Halls, tunnels, delvings and mines ran for miles uncounted in a maze of twisting and interconnecting ways. They could never hope to search all the halls, and even if they did they could not guarantee that they would find their quarry. But the fires that had sprung up at their back suggested that it was not they who were the hunters here.

The beast thought to hunt them instead, it would seek to corral them, guide them, and when it felt they were most lost, and at their weakest, it would strike. It was not for them to seek the creature out. Instead they would be better served by giving the creature reason to come to them, to battle them in a place that was advantageous to them.

"Frór, from where did the water supply of the city come?" he asked. "From the Mirrormere in the Dale?"

Frór shook his head, and became thoughtful. "No, there is a great reservoir held in the Sixth Level, the Nalagshâlak, which feeds all the water of the lower city. It was fed by rain and meltwater from the three peaks above."

"Is it still there?"

"Unless the sluices have been destroyed, there is always water there," he said and in the gloom Harry could see his eyes shine with understanding.

"And what of other ways out?"

"There are no more ways to the east that do not pass the Bridge, but the West Gate will open for us. It is some miles away, and the Way passes through many tunnels," said Frór.

"Is there a route from the Sixth Level to the West Gate that we may take if we are in need?" asked Harry, for he had no desire to leave them all stranded at the beast's mercy if his plan did not work.

"The Kings Way, which runs from West Gate to East, forms the spine of all the workings of Khazad-dûm," said Frór. "All ways will lead to it eventually."

"Then let us go upwards, to the reservoir. I think its waters may prove of help against a being of fire," said Harry. He hoped that the creature was not watching or listening in, he could not feel its eye upon him, and so he hoped that his plan would remain beyond its knowing.

They made their way through the many levels of the City. Here and there they saw some remnant of the battle that had been fought not two years ago for the greatest city upon Middle-earth. Most of the bodies had been retrieved by the Dwarves, who were often fastidious in their observation of the funeral rites of their fallen brethren. There were a few, though, who laid still where they had fallen, their armour blackened, their weapons ruined, melted into formless shapes.

Some of the tunnels had been collapsed. either by the Dwarves in their long, slow flight, or by the beast that had pursued them. Flói led them along narrow corridors and through the city's many hidden ways to keep them on their path upwards. Frór and Flói had remained within the city until the bitterest end, but even they could not remember all of the destructions that had been visited by both the Dwarves and their implacable foe in their year-long battle beneath the mountains, and they had to detour more than a dozen times.

When they passed the third level, Harry began to feel more clearly the fell sight of whatever hid in the dark. The power that was in it was great, and even though he knew the creature was still distant, the strength of its will and hatred was stronger than Voldemort's. He held his staff tighter as it tapped quietly upon the stone of the floor, and he found his other hand resting upon the hilt of Daewen's dagger. His eyes searched every dark corridor that they passed on their way.

There, a flash of distant light, but gone in an instant, the short-lived reflection of their lamps upon the many polished surfaces of Khazad-dûm. There, the distant sound of footsteps in a long Hall, but then just an echo of their own feet. Harry enforced calm upon himself, lest he jump too readily at shadows and reflections. But the darkness was always there, always whispering, always watching, with hidden eyes that Harry could feel, but never see.

"It is measuring us," he muttered to Thórir as they continued up another flight of stairs towards the Fifth Level. "And I think that it finds us wanting."

"Let it think what it will," said Thórir. Now that they were committed to their task, he had become absolutely serious. "It means little. We will give it a fight, whatever little it may think of us."

When they entered the Eighteenth Hall, the largest on the Fifth Level, it seemed that the entire mountain trembled. More fires sprung up which blocked their continued path upwards to the reservoir.

"I think it has seen our minds," said Frór. "It seeks to keep us from the reservoir. Come, this way. It cannot hope to keep every way upwards shut to us."

But after hours of searching, with their lanterns guttering, and oil running low, it seemed that he was mistaken. Every stairwell they attempted was either blocked by fallen rubble, or by towering flames that issues from clefts that had opened up in the ground as they neared.

"There is yet one more way," said Frór in barely more than a whisper. "It does not lead to the Sixth Level, but the Seventh. I will lead us towards another way, and when we are close, we must run for the stairs upwards. From there we can travel down to the Sixth."

Harry did not speak in return. Instead he made the Iglishmêk sign for understanding. Frór led them onwards. They travelled again the length of the Hall, and then,just before they reached the end, Frór broke into a lumbering sprint towards a small doorway set within the stone upon their left. Each of the companions set out at speed to keep up with the Dwarvish Prince, though Harry found that he was able to easily keep pace, even overtake them, on his much longer legs.

Once again, the entire mountain shook and trembled, and the ground just feet in front of them opened up, and orange light flickered within the cleft as the flames strove upwards to block their path. "Quickly!" Harry cried as he jumped over the gap mere moments before flames welled from its unseen depths. He spun and found that he alone had made the crossing. The Dwarves were all stuck at the other side of the flames. He could hear them cry out on the other side of the wall of flame.

He called out to them; "Thórir, Frór, are you all uninjured?"

"We are," came Thórir's voice. "Flói near fell into the flames, but his burns do not look dire. What now should we do?"

Harry looked at the flames that separated him from the Dwarves, and tried to think of something that might help. He looked around for any rubble that could be used to plug the crevasse.

"Are there any stones that could be used to stopper the flames?" he called through the fiery torrent.

"Wait a moment while we look," said Thórir. Harry heard them talking between themselves, though the roar of the flames mean he could not make out the words.

Before they could respond, though, Flói cried out again. This time it was a cry of fear, not pain. "Look, there," he said, and his voice quavered, "There is a shadow moving among the shadows, a darkness in the night. Do you see it?"

"We see it," came Frór's voice, then followed by the soft sound of the drawing of weapons.

"Thórir!" shouted Harry through the flames. "You cannot fight it alone!"

"We have no choice," Thórir returned, "We are trapped here, with flame at our back and Durin's Bane at our front. You should go, while you can, escape here."

"No."

Harry grasped his staff in both hands and called upon the feelings and sensations he remembered from his night under those perfect stars, now half a world away. A pure white light shone from his staff, bright as daylight, and the fires before him billowed and shook like reeds in a gale.

The light shone brightly between Harry's fingers, and as it shone upon the walls all around it was as if he was encased in purest crystal. The baleful red of the fires was utterly overpowered, and the flames died back under the powerful, patronus-like light. Nothing would stop Harry from coming to his friend's aid.

Quite suddenly, the flames winked out, and Harry found himself looking into the Hall beyond, over the heads of his Dwarvish companions.

There was a figure there, and even though the hall was bathed in the bright and pure light, there were shadows around it that the light could not touch. It was like a Man in form, but taller, much taller. It towered over them all, and would surely have been taller than even Hagrid, though not by much. No detail could be seen beyond its black silhouette, and the huge shadow, like great wings which spread across the hall behind it. In one hand it held a sword that was of molten flame, and dripped fire from its terrible spiked blade. In the other hand was a whip that curled and curved around the creature, like a candle-flame in a breeze, only much more terrible. The only features in its face where two eyes which shone like blood-soaked rubies, and seemed to cut through Harry to his very soul.

He was less than nothing, those eyes spoke without words. He was a mistake, a freak, a fool and doomed for it, the worthless child of a blind father.

The light of his staff flickered.

"Quick," he said through gritted teeth, as the malign will of the beast beat down upon him, and hopelessness swelled within his breast. "Get into the stairwell!"

The Dwarves acted immediately, and each bundled quickly through the now cleared doorway, in those mere seconds, Harry was forced to his knees in his battle of wills with the beast beyond. The light flickered again, shadows danced, the beast advanced.

Harry let loose a shout, which echoed up and down the hall in its volume, and he swung his staff against the wall at the doorway, as he had struck the cliff when he had been travelling from Ironhaunt years ago.

His light extinguished, and they were plunged into darkness as Harry fell back. The beast saw his action, and lunged forward. But too slow. Rocks fell from the ceiling just inches from the searching tip of its fiery blade and Harry was himself nearly crushed. Thórir and the other Dwarves pulled Harry's limp and exhausted body back from the rock-fall as the beast beyond roared in rage and smote mightily upon the great slabs of stone that separated it from its prey.

With the remaining dregs of his strength, Harry hauled himself upright, and leant heavily on his staff. He tried to focus on his companions, as the evil will was bent towards them beyond just a scant few feet of stone. "We need to move," he croaked, his voice weak, like his body. "I do not think it will be stymied for long."

Thórir pulled Harry's arm over his shoulder and aided him up the stairs, their height disparity made it difficult, but Harry still welcomed the help, he was not sure he could have stood unaided.

They managed to stumble to the top of the stairs, and when they did the roaring below became muted then stopped altogether. They stepped into a large room which was lined with many books and held many more scrolls. A shaft of light, the first sunlight they had seen since they had entered Khazad-dum, lit the room in something that approached a friendly and familiar glow.

"The Chamber of Records," said Frór, the first time he had spoken since their encounter below. "It is not far from here to the reservoir, if we can brave the Twenty-First Hall, and find stairs to the Sixth Level."

"I"—Harry sat down heavily on one of the stone tables that occupied the middle of the room—"I think I need to have a rest first."

"We cannot tarry here long," said Thórir as he looked towards the door through which they had come. "The creature will not be held long by that rubble, I fear."

"That is no mere beast," said Flói quietly. "It is a Balrog, one of the beasts of Balkûn from the elder days."

"It cannot be," said Frór, almost desperately. "They all are gone from the world, with their Dark Master. It is some other manner of beast. It must be."

"It is a Balrog," said Flói flatly.

Frór sat heavily beside Harry and cradled his head in his hands. "Then we are doomed," he said, his voice muffled. "Only an army could stand before such a beast, and we are no army."

Dread settled in the pit of Harry's belly. "What is a Balrog?"

"Spawn of Balkûn, demons of an elder age, creatures of shadow and fire, and greater even than the greatest of the Dragonhost." Flói's eyes become more helpless with each passing word. "All tales of them are laments, for there is no victory to be found against them. Only the mightiest of the Elf Lords of old have stood against them and lived. There can be no victory here. Ai, why did we return here?"

"How could we not know?" asked Frór. "How could our Loremasters not see the beast for what it was?"

"They never saw it," said Flói. "None who saw it lived, and those who did were warriors, not Loremasters."

Frór turned to Harry. "We must abandon this, Darjûn, there can be no victor against this ageless evil. We must bear word to our people, they need to know what foe it is they will face if ever they return here."

A fresh wave of tiredness threatened to overtake Harry, but he grunted, and nodded. It was clear enough already that there could be little hope of defeating this creature. It was no cherufe, and it had been folly to believe that it could be so easily dispatched. He had thought he had come to an understanding of the world, that while much was changed, much also had stayed the same. Dragons, and wolves and deer and horses, the plants of the earth and the beasts of the land were not so dissimilar to his own world, yet here it was clear he had misjudged. His mistake; his friends' lives. "Then lead us on. I will not falter."

His decision was made, and with it came new strength. With a grunt, Harry pushed himself upright and waved Thórir off when he offered his aid. Harry was no stranger to dire circumstance, and this would not be the day he died, and it would not be the day his friends payed for his own mistakes..

They made their way out of the Chamber of Records and stepped into the Twenty-First, and highest, Hall of Khazad-dûm. To their relief, no fires burned from clefts in the ground, and there was only the silence of sleeping stone to be heard.

"This way," said Frór as he led them down the dark hall, flanked on both sides by striding giants; the great pillars that held up the mountain above.

They were silent again, but this time they were listening, their ears strained for the slightest sound. The rumble of stone upon stone, the hiss and crack of the cursed fire that came before the Balrog like a herald of its terrible burning malice.

They descended another set of stairs, and silence followed their tread. The deep shadows and darkness of the mountain pursued them through the Halls, as if driving them towards their dark master. The light of Harry's staff, now the only light they had, held them back: they hid behind every turn, piled up behind every column, pooled in every hollow and alcove.

But it was better than the alternative.

They descended one level, to the Sixth where they had meant to go before, and Frór and Flói led them along winding corridors, away from the main halls, which seemed to go on and on forever in a winding labyrinth of darkness. After another age, they emerged into a great room, a natural cavern hewn before the Dwarves were even a light and a thought. A great lake of shimmering water stood before them, and light glittered upon its surface far into the gloomy depths beyond sight.

The Dwarves had built a dam across one end of the cavern to contain the waters, and huge wheels and turbines, once used to power the forges upon the lower levels, sat silent and becalmed in the now deserted city. They began their walk across it, painfully exposed to any watching eyes. On one side, an expanse of water that stretched beyond sight; on the other, a sheer drop, and the roar of water as it fell through the many broad overflow pipes constructed by Dwarves millennia ago.

The surface of the waters were motionless, and perfectly smooth. In the darkness they reflected the ceiling high above, and stars shone there, gems that glittered in the stone overhead.

There, in the open cave, atop the dam where five men could walk abreast with ease, and with jewels shining overhead, the Shadow returned. Harry felt its presence before he saw it, a great weight and darkness that descended upon his shoulders and mind. Like a memory of Angmar, but so much greater, like the terror of a nightmare could dwarf the real event. He stopped in his tracks, and stared into the darkness that was before them, for he could feel the creature living within it, awaiting them. "Stop," he said to the Dwarves who had continued onwards, not noticing Harry's halt.

Then the terrible figure stepped from the concealing shadows, and into the weakening light of Harry's staff. The great shadow, and the shadow that it cast, strode forward and parted Harry's light before it like a ship in the sea, and left behind it a wake of darkness.

The whip snaked around its dark form, and the blade of fire was held loosely at its side.

"Get behind me!" Harry called to the Dwarves has he wearily readied himself and tried to banish the exhaustion that he still felt.

Flói did not listen. He looked back at Frór and the rest of them, and a fey happiness was in his eyes, for they shone with mixed despair and joy. "Go," he said before turning back to the beast.

"Baruk Khazâd!" was his cry, and he charged the beast with his axe in hand. "Khazâd ai-mênu!"

The fiery whip snaked out in a flash of light and flame, and cut across the Dwarf and though he raised his axe to block, it was cut in two and a trail of fire danced across his light leather armour. But he did not stop, he cast aside the broken haft of his axe and opened his other hand to reveal one of the potion pots Harry had made up. He threw the pot towards the Balrog, which regarded the little object with contempt and there was no fear in its eyes of fire.

The flask smashed against its dark body, and cold blue flames erupted in an explosion that near consumed Flói where he had fallen, as he clutched at the fiery wounds that had been inflicted upon him by the whip.

The shadow figure reared back as a wave of shining cold swept over Harry and his companions, their breath condensed in clouds before them, and ice and rime formed at their feet. A great billowing mass of frozen water, mixed with rapidly boiling steam erupted from where the Balrog had been, and within it the orange glow of its sword and whip did not fade.

First a faint outline, tall and dark, appeared in the clouds that were rolling across the dam and rising towards the dark cavernous vaults above. The Balrog stepped from the cloud, seemingly uninjured by the explosion. Still, though,there were a few signs that it was not entirely untouched. Its dark shadowy mass, once completely black and formless now had a few spidering cracks which shone with an inner blood-red fire. The ground blackened at its feet, and flames trailed up its back and flickered from the cracks in its black silhouette. The ice upon the ground nearby shattered and melted in an instant, and the stone of the dam groaned in protest. The Balrog took the single long step towards where Flói lay, still injured by its burning attacks, but the fires extinguished by Harry's potion. It stooped to pick the Dwarf up in a single clawed hand.

Flói cried out briefly as he was picked up, and his hands scratched at the talons that held him. Even as they did, Harry saw the finger blackened from the terrible heat that the creature held within it. In moments, his struggles weakened, and he hung limply from its outstretched claw, his head held completely within its huge fist. Smoke curled around him as his beard and hair immolated in the heat that radiated from the creature.

The Balrog bared its teeth, and a fierce glow shone within its mouth, and clenched its fist as it stared directly at Frór. A crack resounded around the cavern, and the Balrog threw Flói's ruined corpse towards the remaining companions, his head, face and hands were a blackened mess.

Then the Balrog stalked closer, and its whip probed at them, almost like a living thing.

Harry looked to Frór, his face set with determination, and his voice unwavering. "Go. Bring word of this to your people. I will try to delay it."

Frór nodded reluctantly, for Harry could see the fear war with pride and wroth within his eyes. Then, without another word, he turned to run back the way they had came, his final hope resting with Harry and Thórir as they stood between him and a demon from before the making of the world.

"You will let him go," said Harry as he turned back towards the beats. He placed all power that still remained within him into the command, and his words reverberated around the dark cavern.

The Balrog did not respond, and Harry did not know if it even understood him. It seemed to recognise the bloodline from which Frór had sprung, for it was he, not Harry or Thórir, that those malevolent eyes followed.

" **You will let him go!** " said Harry again, this time the Black Speech of Mordor rolled across the waters of Nalagshâlak, and the stars reflected there trembled to hear it.

Those terrible eyes locked onto his, but still it did not speak. Still it did not seem to understand, but it had gleaned something from Harry's dark words, perhaps it had recognised a kindred evil, even if it could not understand the words themselves.

" _Nerincë lucando, han nuru, estel hehtana_ ," said the creature in a language that Harry could not understand. The words were fair, made foul by the mouth that uttered them. It took a step towards them.

Harry brandished his staff again, and, in desperation, he muttered, " _Expecto Patronum._ "

The feeble light of his staff, which had guttered in the face of the shadow of evil, grew again in brightness, but the Balrog was unperturbed. The shadows still surrounded it like a terrible cloak. It took another step towards them.

Thórir threw another of the flasks, but this time the beast lashed out with its fiery blade, and the cold explosion was weakened and broke around it like nothing more than fog. Another step.

Harry and Thórir shared a glance, and Harry knew that in all likelihood they would both die that day. But they would make a battle of it. The Balrog stepped closer.

Harry lunged forward, his staff held in both hands are he swung it towards the creature's legs with all his strength. The fiery blade caught his staff, and a shower of sparks and molten flame washed over the ground. The Balrog reeled back a moment, as if surprised by the power it had found in the figure that looked so short and weak beneath its shadow. Harry did not wait, and pressed his attack as Thórir moved to flank the creature.

Another of the flasks flew through the air, this time straight into the face of the Balrog and there it shattered into another bloom of burning ice. The Balrog screamed, though more in rage than pain, and the whip flicked at Harry, and wrapped around his arm.

Harry screamed as the fires, more intense than anything he'd ever known, bit through his clothes in a moment, and beneath them he could feel his flesh bubble and burn.

Then Thórir launched his attack from the creature's rear. Another explosion of cold, a balm for Harry's burning arm, and another war-cry echoed across the cavern, "Khazâd!" cried Thórir as he swung his axe at the frost-rimed legs of the Balrog. "Khazâd!"

His axe shattered into a thousand glittering shards upon impact, the warring heat and cold too much for the metal to bear. The whip snapped and Harry was thrown to the side, rolling to land not far from Flói's still-smoking body further up the walkway. The Balrog turned then forward Thórir who stood his ground. He pulled from a side-sheath a dagger, his final weapon, and slashed at the Balrog in a last act of defiance.

Harry pushed himself up, and he could see before him the fiery sword descend towards Thórir, and his magic pushed out to aid him. A shimmering shield flashed over Thórir and for a moment it seemed as if the molten blade might be turned aside. But then the terrible power of the Balrog crashed over Harry and the shield faltered and failed. In his last moments, just before the sword met his head, Thórir looked to Harry one last time. He nodded, then he was gone amid a whirlwind of flames that spun around the weapon, like Fiendfyre given shape.

There was only one potion left, but they had already proved to be of little use against the power of Durin's Bane. Harry stood, wearily, and swayed upon his feet as the Balrog once again stalked closer, step by step, like the tread of Doom.

The sword flashed down, and with a strength he did not know he had, Harry raised his staff to block again. Once again an explosion of fire and sparks rocked dam, and it began to crumble amid the fire and ice. The Balrog snarled, its mouth twisted in wordless hatred as it fought the staff, gifted to Harry long ago by Saruman, and enspelled with something more than Harry's own power.

With failing strength, his single grip on the staff weakening by the moment, Harry reached for his final vial even as he was driven to his knees, and dropped it upon the ground where it exploded like all the others. The cavern trembled, and the ground beneath them rocked. But cold did not bite and instead granted Harry new strength to fight the fires, he was able to push back, just slightly, and pulled from his side Daewen's Elvish dagger. With a cry of exertion, Harry plunged the blade into the clawed foot of Durin's Bane.

Durin's Bane screamed with such rage that it was surely felt to the very roots of the mountain and beyond. It lashed out with its foot and Harry was sent tumbling a few feet away again, and he could feel his arm break from the landing, but his hands still held tight to both his staff and the ruined and melted Elvish blade.

He could not cry out, though, for there was no time. The dam, tortured in its great age by the battle of fire and ice, heat and cold, light and dark, groaned one last time, before it gave way beneath him.

Harry fell towards rushing waters as huge rocks tumbled beside him. Flashes of white claws reached out for him, but they did not slash, nor rend and the stones did not crush him. instead, the waters took him gently to their bosom, and even the bone-chilling cold seemed welcome compared to the terrible fire that consumed the weir-top. The last thing Harry saw before being lost into the deep dark tunnels was two distant eyes, blood-soaked rubies which burned in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep the layout of Moria as close to canon as possible. The 'Chamber of Records' is the Chamber of Mazarbul, where Balin was laid to rest in canon. We are currently hundreds of years prior to Balin's birth, so his coffin is not there.
> 
> The Balrog has been described to echo the book version, which was much more 'monstrously tall humanoid' and less 'gigantic fire demon'. If you want to think of it as the fire demon, though, I have no qualms. The language it speaks is Quenya. There are a number of questions surrounding Morgoth and the use of language (with a few references to him concocting his own 'Black Speech' style tongue), but I have elected for the simple here; his servants used Quenya. An alternative would be Valarin, but I don't feel that that language should be spoken outside of Valinor.
> 
> For those who are very interested, the phrase: "Nerincë lucando, han nuru, estel hehtana." Could (if you squint and try not to think about it too hard) translate to something like, "Manling tresspasser anything beyond death is a forsaken hope."
> 
> Nalagshalak is 'Darkwater'


	16. Then Fell Towards Distant Light

Pale clouds lapped at the shores of Harry's mind, and light filled his senses. Far distant —the sound of distant storms, the clash and clamour of water upon stone. A memory, now years old, floated to the forefront of his mind, a memory of a train station between life, and death.

The eddies which kept the white clouds in motion surged, and suddenly they receded from view, like a fast-retreating tide. The empty hall of King's Cross was before him again, and every surface shone with pale light, a sheen like the finest of pearls.

Where before there had been the tall and comforting figure of Albus Dumbledore, standing amid the diamond walls of King's Cross, now there was nothing. Nothing but the distant roar of the water that had swept him off to this place. And yet, despite his solitude, Harry felt some small measure of the relief he'd felt on that day.

For the first time in years, here was a familiar sight, even if it was one from beyond the doors of death. It was almost like being home, and he took comfort in the knowledge that he had not been dragged so far from home that he could not return into the arms of his friends and family, even if only through death.

Shadows shimmered over the white stone, even while the mists swirled and flowed in the air about him, and Harry remembered the events that had led to his presence in this place beyond places. He had led his friends into shadow and death. He had failed Flói and Frór, and his ill-thought had led to the death of one of those few whom he could call friend.

Dumbledore had always said that death was a great adventure, as if it were some grand thing to be cherished and even anticipated. Harry had had quite enough of adventure. His next adventure had been one of suffering, sorrow and loneliness. Even if he had met a few people whom he could consider friends, they could never wipe out the stain that Angmar had left upon his mind and soul.

The Balrog, just one more evil thing in this world seemingly replete with them. In Voldemort, Harry thought he had met evil in its uttermost expression, but now he knew he could not be more wrong.

Voldemort's evil was a little evil; the evil of a Man, no matter how powerful. He had wished to rule, to hold himself above all others, and to know that he alone was beyond the reach of Death. The Balrog… Harry had sensed within it a will quite unlike any he had known. It cared not for lords or serfs. It cared not for blood, or great names or deeds. It had only one driving thought, one driving _need._ The need to see the world ended, the need to see every soul torn asunder in its terrible clawed hands. The fire and heat of it had been nothing less than the rage it felt at the world; they were fury given form.

The distant roaring of water lessened until it was at the very edge of hearing, like the memory of a storm-tossed sea. Instead, his ears were filled with the more gentle music of a clear mountain stream, and the clear notes spoke of the sun, unmarred, reflected in the mirrored waters.

Harry sensed a presence, and looked up to find that figure that he had missed standing some distance away, shrouded in the mists. The figure was tall, and with long white hair. A great beard fell to his waist. He wore long robes of bright emerald hue, and they shimmied and wavered in some invisible flow.

"Is it over, at last?" Harry asked Dumbledore, and his voice was as tired as his soul felt.

He was too distant to see properly, but Harry imagined that the old man's eyes twinkled sadly. "Harry, my boy," said Dumbledore at last, and his old familiar voice washed over Harry like a soothing balm, "nothing ever ends. Not truly. Even death is but the first step along a new and winding road."

"So it is still not over," said Harry, and his shoulders slumped. "Why am I here, Professor? Why did I come to this world, so filled with darkness and suffering? I have brought nothing good with me, that much is sure."

No words came from Dumbledore then, but he moved closer, and Harry felt the void suck at him.

"I thought I was nearly done years ago," he said, and he could not keep the bitterness from his tone. "I gave all I could to defeat Voldemort. I thought I had but one last effort to make, and I could live my life without his shadow looming over me. But no. Why was I torn from that, Professor?" he looked up, and saw in those blue eyes an ocean of sorrow, as if his own mind was reflected back at him.

Harry laughed bitterly. "Now I remember what it was you said, when I met you the first time, in this place. 'Of course it's in my mind, but why should that mean it's not real.' Am I lying upon some cold stone, under the endless dark of the mountain, delirious and dying, I wonder? Is this some dream I am having, while my final breaths are stolen away? I do not think I would mourn them."

"Before you came here," said Dumbledore, and Harry's head shot up to look at his old mentor. "I told you that you had done more than anyone had any right to expect, that you had been brave beyond reckoning, and that you could owe nothing more to anyone."

"Much good that did me," said Harry.

"That is because it is not for us to decide what it is we deserve, or what we are owed, Harry," said Dumbledore, as he folded his arms within the loose sleeves of his robes.

"That's it?" Harry said. He would have snapped it, had a weariness not settled upon his soul. "That is your sage advice? Forgive me if I am not comforted."

"No comfort is needed," said Dumbledore, the calm tones of his voice not shifting even slightly. "But you _should_ be comforted, Harry. If the choice is between a cast iron fate, an end which all could see coming, if only their sight were clear enough, and the chaos of free choice, which would you prefer?"

"Ha! I should have known you would turn that one around on me," said Harry, and he shook his head ruefully. "But it matters not. Here I am, at the end of things, I think my _choices_ have run their course."

Dumbledore shook his head, and met Harry's eyes with his deep blue ones. "No. Now it matters more than ever. For here you have the choice that was taken from you when last you came to this place."

"The choice between passing on, and returning back?" Harry frowned. "Do you honestly believe that that is any choice at all, given what I have seen and experienced here? Everything I fought for these last years was lost or destroyed when I tried to take on that… creature."

"It may be an easy choice, but that makes it no less important."

Harry snorted and shook his head. "Ah. I see now. The choice between what is right, and what is easy, am I right? But who is to say that the right choice is not also the easy one? I have done enough damage, Professor. I have led enough blameless innocents to their meaningless deaths." Harry closed his eyes and thought back to other friends, long lost, and memories that had become little more than distant blurs and the soft comfort of lighter times. "What about Ron and Hermione, Professor? What about Ginny, Neville, Fred, George, Remus, Sirius and everyone else who have probably suffered because of me, my action, or my inaction?"

"Death is but a stop on the road, and one that all Men must brave," said Dumbledore. "The question you should ask yourself, is whether the path that was taken to get there a worth-while one. And you must ask yourself if they would have asked anything less of you, or more."

A grimace flashed across Harry's face, but he wasn't going to allow that to pass. "I doubt Flói would have chosen his end, if he could."

"But he did choose it, did he not?" said Dumbledore, and Harry found his calm voice was beginning to grate upon his nerves. "You say his death was meaningless. I say he chose the death that meant more to him that anything, a death in service to his Lord, over a life that meant nothing."

"Flói was a fool," said Harry before lapsing into a silence that Dumbledore did not try to fill.

A few seconds stretched out into hours amid the swirling eddies and clouds before Harry spoke again: "Why am I the one who is given the chance to return? Why me, before anyone else?"

"You are not the first to be offered that choice, Harry," said Dumbledore, and Harry blinked in surprise.

"Who?"

"A Man named Beren was the first," said Dumbledore. "When he died, after a great battle, the Elf, Lúthien Tinúviel, appealed to Mandos himself, and her song held such beauty that it moved even his implacable heart. She and her love were granted lives anew, to live as they would, in peace upon the island of Tol Galen."

Harry frowned, and took half a step back from the being wearing the visage of Dumbledore, for Dumbledore could not have known anything of the world which Harry had for the last few years inhabited. "You are not Dumbledore, and you are not some figment of my fevered mind," he said. The slowly twisting wisps of pale mist gained in urgency as an unseen power rose within Harry. "What are you?"

The dark blue eyes, which Harry should have noticed immediately, for they were not the sky-blue of the Dumbledore he had known years ago, shifted and changed until they held within them a deep pelagic green. The man spoke: "I am not he, it is true. Who I am is of little consequence, for I am scarce more than a secret whisper within the courses of this world."

"That was not an answer." The swirling mists had become almost a whirlwind as Harry's power whipped them into a storm.

"Your choice lies before you." And Harry was alone. The figure, gone. The roaring wind ebbed until the great marble Hall of Kings Cross was once again silent and still.

Harry cursed the empty air. Even as he did, he knew that there was only one choice he could make, and that realisation made him curse all the more as the world around him dissolved into the swirling mists that had surrounded him. Darkness snuck back into his sight, until all was blackness.

The dull throbbing of cold-numbed pain rolled through Harry's body and mind. He lay in darkness, eyes glued shut by fatigue. His ears were filled with a loud roaring, a noise which drowned out all others.

But still he breathed, still he persisted, still he would not let go of life. The only small comfort was that this time it had been by his own choice.

Time had little meaning to him in the darkness, as it had meant little in the dungeons beneath Angmar. The only thing to mark the passing of seconds was the weak pulsing of his heart, and the fresh pain that each breath sent rolling slowly through his battered body.

"Aiya Elladan! Thuia eno. Tolo, anno nin chín ranc. Firtha aen o ring."

The voice cut suddenly through the constant featureless noise that assaulted his every sense, and Harry tried to draw its attention. He tried to speak, but all that escaped was a croak. Even that small action caused pain to ripple through his body, and he started coughing and new tsunamis of pain crashed over his abused senses.

"La meno, mellon nîn," said the voice in smooth tones which seemed all the fairer after the recent darkness of Khazad-dûm.

A hand rested gently on Harry's chest, and as he became aware once again of the world beyond his own body, his coughing waned, and a little of the pain faded. He could still feel the grating ache of the broken bones in his chest and arm, and the hot sparks of pain in his other arm. The results of his earlier battle, he remembered.

With a great application of will, he cracked his eyes open, and was almost instantly blinded by the too-bright sunlight rushing over the mountains, the flood of morning. A dark silhouette loomed over him, but his eyes could make out no detail upon their face.

"Anno nin en alu, gwanur," said the figure overhead, then there was a slapping noise Harry could not identify, and something was pressed to his mouth. Harry turned his head aside, and the voice switched to Westron. "It is but water. You should drink, friend."

As his wits returned to him, Harry recognised the sweet musicality in the voice, a sure sign that his helper was an Elf. His sight, too, was slowly returning, and he was able to make out a pale face amid long dark hair. He was reminded, then, of Daewen, the first person who had shown him kindness after a year in Middle-earth. He drank.

The water tasted like the sweetest honey he'd ever known. Better than wine, or the sweet liqueurs produced in a few places in the East. Better even than the long-dusted memory of drinking warm butterbeer while surrounded by his old friends. With the water came a new strength, and the clouds that obscured his mind were washed away.

In their place came memories, and with the memories came darkness, and despair.

Thórir was dead, along with Flói, and Frór was surely lost too. All thanks to Harry's incompetence. He closed his eyes, and tried to remember the words he had heard used among the Dwarves, when one of their own passed, the adrûthigulûb, "Bless those who mourn, Mahal, shield them from the pain with your hammer and guide them to a new day."

Those words felt wrong, coming from his mouth, the mouth of a Man. The Words of Mourning were meant to be spoken by Dwarvish mouths, and in the Dwarvish tongue. They were made for the great funerals and stone tombs of their people. It felt as if he were dirtying the words, as if he could not, and would never, appreciate their importance. Yet, even with that knowledge, he could think of no better way to remember his friend.

"Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath," said the Elf who had offered him the waterskin.

Harry drove away his mournful thoughts, and pushed himself upright with the burned, but unbroken, arm. The Elf stepped back with all of the nimble grace he'd seen in Daewen and her Eastern kin. He and his single companion regarded Harry with sharp grey eyes, and Harry regarded them in turn.

They were both perhaps of a height with Harry, and each had long dark hair that shimmered in the cold light of the winter morning. They were almost indistinguishable from each-other in form and dress, and only the finely detailed hilts of their slim swords, which they carried at their waists, differed between them.

Harry rubbed at his head and felt his hair matted with mud and a little blood. He tried to clear the throbbing pain from his mind, but it proved a stubborn foe. "I think," he said, and the words still came sluggishly, "that I owe you both thanks. When I fell into the dark waters, I was sure that I would never see the light again, and yet here I am. How did I come here?"

"We know not," said the Elf who had been standing over Harry moments before. "In truth, you owe us no thanks, Stranger, for we have only just come across you. We did not pull you from the waters, you were washed up here when we found you."

"How did you come to fall into the Sirannon?" asked the other Elf. "Came you from the dark deeps beneath the mountain?"

"Pride saw me here." Harry grimaced. "And not a little stupidity."

"Not two days ago, as we were passing over the Pass of Caradhras, we felt a great clash of powers take place within the bowels of the mountain beneath our feet," said the first Elf. "Do you know anything of it?"

Harry touched his shoulder gingerly, and hissed when lances of pain shot through it and into his broken arm. "It is as I said, my own foolishness led me to it," he said. He then continued, more to himself than the two Elves, "Yet it was others who ultimately paid the price for my arrogance."

"Then you do know of that which I speak," said the Elf, his eyes sharp with interest. "Naneth said that some great Evil had been awoken by the Dwarves in the dark beneath the mountain, but she spoke not of its nature."

Harry rubbed at his face and looked around at the place where he'd been washed up. His eye was drawn to the shallows not far from where he sat, where his staff was rocked slightly by the river water lapping gently against the stones, protected from the main current which surely should have seen it, and him, much further down the river. He groaned in pain as he reached into the icy waters to retrieve Saruman's gift to him, but when his hand closed over the stone and metal he felt a new warmth extend through him. He looked up at the Elves who had aided him.

"A Balrog of Morgoth," Harry said simply, and his answer was a light of recognition and fear in the eyes of the Elves before him. "Let all of the people of these lands know that. Let them know that the seal of Moria should not be broken, even in the direst need. Do not let others make the same mistake we did."

"That is dark news indeed," said the first Elf, and his eyes widened in fear for a moment. Then, as if realising that he and his companion had not introduced themselves either, he pointed to himself. "I am Elladan of Rivendell, and this is my brother, Elrohir. You carry with you the accoutrements of a Wizard, and yet I have heard no tell of you. Do you battle the creatures of Morgoth?"

Harry did not think the names were familiar. Perhaps Daewen had spoken of them during their time travelling together, or perhaps not. Either way, it mattered little. "You have my gratitude Elladan, Elrohir. I am Harry," he said simply. "I travelled beneath the mountain in the company of three Dwarves. Now, I fear, that I am the only one who remains. I did go there, in my folly, to confront Durin's Bane, but I knew not its true nature until it was too late."

He regarded the two Elves before him. He was not surprised that they were brothers. As he had noticed before, they were more alike even than Fred and George. If the two before him were to swap their swords, he was certain he would soon forget which name belonged to whom. They had all of the grace of Daewen and the other Elves he had met, but if it was possible they held in their eyes a light which seemed to give them a regal air which overshadowed even the Lady of Wildholt.

He stood slowly, trying to clutch simultaneously at his staff and his injured arm. Elladan moved to help, but Harry shook his head at him. Sometimes pain served a purpose. He turned to look at the mountains above them which had somehow seen fit to bear him safely out into the rivers at their roots. The sky overhead was the deep blue of winter, and completely untouched by clouds. The higher reaches of the mountains were clad in pristine white snow, which shone like a blanket of diamonds upon the dark stone.

A flash of silver caught his eye in the waterfall, down which he must have tumbled not so long ago. He watched in amazement as the ruined knife of Daewen, which by all rights should have been lost forever in the darkness of the mountain, was washed towards him down the stream, some impossible current leading it back him against all odds.

"Unless my eyes deceive me, that is one of Camaenor's blades," said Elrohir, as Harry leaned heavily upon his staff, bending low to pick up the once beautiful dagger, now blackened and warped by the fires of the Balrog. The edge, though warped out of it original smooth shape, was somehow still sharp.

"It is," said Harry, remembering that Daewen had said such when she had given it to him. "Granted to me by one of your kin. I had always intended to return it to her, if I survived," he said a little ruefully.

"I daefaer?" said Elladan as he stepped back, surprise clear upon his face. "Daewen gave you that blade?"

"You know her?" asked Harry. Perhaps he should not have been surprised, in their long lives Elves surely came to know each and every one of their close kin.

"She is a friend to our sister," said Elrohir, "and she has often spoken of her short time with you. Though, to see you now, I cannot find it within me to believe that you were the sorry creature dragged from the depths of Carn Dûm."

Harry grimaced as those memories were dragged to the surface after long dormancy. "The years between then and now have been long, and time heals injuries of the body. I remember still, the cold clawing darkness of those cells, the grasping evil that seemed to seep from the walls. I will not speak of it here. Hurts to the soul do not heal so quickly."

The two Elves looked surprised at Harry's reply, and he had to remind himself that a mere decade would be no time at all to an Elf, who might live through all the millennia of the world untouched by time, and whose pain could not be dulled by its touch.

"Her heart will be gladdened to see you healed," said Elladan. "Lord Glorfindel too, and all who heard your story. You cast a long shadow over those who saw you lifted from the deep cells."

"Lord Glorfindel would surely also like to hear of your ill-fated battle with the Balrog of Moria. There are few in Middle-earth who can claim that feat," said Elrohir.

Harry looked away from the two Elves, instead seeking out the vista below where the cold blue morning light was streaming over the land, released from behind the mountains at his back. "You are returning to Rivendell now?" he asked.

"We are," said Elladan, then he seemed to remember that Harry was bent over in an attempt to lessen the pain in his ribs and arm. "Would you join us? You are still injured after your trial beneath the mountain."

"It is our father who possesses the skill in healing," said Elrohir, "for our hands are more suited to holding our swords, but we both have some knowledge that may help you."

"Your offer is gratefully received," said Harry, and he meant it. He was not sure he would be able to move at any respectable pace, injured as he was. The mountains could be dangerous at any time of the year, for the dregs of Angmar had been driven into their shadow after the fall of the Witch King. "I have some healing ability of my own. With luck, and your aid, I will not need the ministrations of your father."

"Daewen spoke of your uncanny ability," said Elladan. "You could turn common plants into curative draughts of great potency, she said."

Harry nodded, then realised that the initial warmth he'd felt when he'd picked up his staff had faded again, and that he was shivering in the cold winter air, his wet clothes plastered upon his skin. Elladan seemed to notice at the same time, and he continued; "But our curiosity can wait, for there are ills that are more easily fixed."

Without any words passed between them, Elrohir moved away from the cold rocks and the spray of the waterfall towards a patch of open ground in the lee of a large rock that jutted from the gentle lower slopes of the mountains. There, he began to build a fire. At the same time, Elladan pulled his own silver-grey cloak from his shoulders and rested it around Harry. The effect was almost instant, the thin but warm garment enough to stop Harry's shivering.

"Come, friend," said Elladan as he helped Harry walk the short distance to where Elrohir was already coaxing a fire to life among the dry kindling that they must have been carrying with them. "I think you will have many a tale to tell, but you must be weary. Tales and talk can keep."

o-o

Harry once again found himself floating and listless in an uncaring world that seemed to ignore his anguish. For the last months he had had a goal, a hope, a final destination to strive for. He had seen before him a path that could eventually lead him to the home that he had so long craved. Now, again, it had proven a dead end, and he was left static as the world continued about him. Birds still flew in the sky, the sun still rose and set, clouds still marched across the sky, yet his friends would never again see any of that.

More than that, though, he had to decide where it was he should go now.

He could return to the Dwarves of the Red Mountains. Saruman would surely receive him again in Ironhaunt, but it felt like that would only serve to take him backwards on his journey. He had spent years in the East, searching for the answers to his questions and solutions to his problems. He had found some, it was true. His magic was not altogether lost to him any more, largely thanks to the advice offered by Saruman, but he had been idle too long. It was time to seek out something new. There had to be someone upon the face of Middle-earth who could give him the answers he sought.

Lord Elrond of Rivendell was one of the people who might be able to give him answers. Harry understood that his knowledge of the history and lore of Middle-earth put even Saruman's to shame.

More than that, though, the thought of seeing an old friend again was a great allure, a friend whom his own misadventures had not killed.

So it was that the next day, after brewing the best potion he was able from the winter-worn herbs and flowers that the Elvish brothers had been able to find for him, Harry travelled with the two brothers down the path of the Sirannon until it met with the Glanduin which tumbled down from the mountains further to the south, roaring and sparkling in the winter sun.

Upon a hill at the joining of the two rivers was a ruined city, and though Elladan and Elrohir would not pass into those ruins out of respect for the Elves who had fallen there, they told Harry the story of Ost-in-Edhil, the fall of Celebrimbor and of Sauron the Terrible.

"Adar would be better suited to telling the full story," said Elladan one night as they camped below the shattered walls that had once surrounded the city named the 'Fortress of the Elves' in Sindarin. "But even in its shortest form, it is no happy tale."

"Sauron was once lieutenant to the Dark Lord Morgoth in the wars of the First Age. But after his fall he fled, and for long years he disappeared. It was not until much later that he came out from the shadows," Elladan continued. "But when he did, he wore a fair face and called himself by a new name: Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, and gifts he did bring with him."

"Our adar did not trust him," said Elrohir, and Harry could hear a note of pride. "Nor did the Lady Galadriel. Ereinion Gil-Galad too, the last High King of the Noldor, trusted him not either. But here, at Ost-in-Edhil, under the rulership of Celebrimbor of the House of Finwë, his honeyed words found willing ears."

"Celebrimbor was the greatest craftsman of our people since Fëanor himself, yet it is said that he loved Lady Galadriel, and he sought every for a way to bring her joy. Sauron granted him his wish. He taught him how to create the Rings of Power. You have already seen the result of that evil, for the Witch King of Angmar once owned one of the sixteen lesser rings created by Sauron and Celebrimbor together in that time."

Elrohir was now into full flow with his story, and Harry found himself engrossed. "But Sauron is not named the Deceiver for nothing, for in secret he forged another Ring, the Master Ring. Through that Ring he could see, and if given enough time, master the minds of any who wielded the lesser rings. And so, eventually, became the Nazgûl, the Ring Wraiths, and the Witch King who is their leader, the most feared of Sauron's servants."

"But what became of this place?" asked Harry, for he felt that the story might continue late into the night if Elrohir was allowed to continue. Elves did not need sleep like Men, and so a telling of the entire history of the world would surely not seem so daunting to them.

"Though Celebrimbor perhaps did not know it at the time, he deceived Sauron as well," said Elladan, for Elrohir had lost his flow with Harry's interruption. "For using the knowledge that had been gifted him by Sauron, he created three more rings, and they were free from the taint of Sauron's touch. Unlike the sixteen they did not drive their wielders into madness and evil; their power was uncorrupted, and so Sauron could not suffer them to exist."

"It was through those Rings that the Elves realised Sauron's deception. For they felt it the moment that Sauron wore the One for the first time, and they knew that they had been betrayed. Sauron sent messengers to Celebrimbor and demanded that he turn the Rings over to them, Celebrimbor turned them away, and hid the Rings."

"Sauron's wrath was terrible. He swept aside the armies of Eregion, and he captured Celebrimbor, and took possession of the Sixteen, but he could never find the Three, though he filled Celebrimbor's body with arrows, and strung his body upon a banner to be carried by his armies. Ost-in-Edhil was razed to the ground, and even now any elf can hear the stones lament that day."

Harry stared at the dark silhouette which stood black against the faint red of the long retreated sun, now hidden behind the distant horizon. As he did so he fancied he could hear that lament; a sad, silent song which was surely echoed in his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's much that needs to be said concerning little-known lore.
> 
> I will say that Elrohir and Elladan are not loremasters like Saruman or Elrond, and so their telling of the War of the Elves and Sauron is not guaranteed to be completely accurate in the details and timing (neither of the brothers were alive at the time). However, it is correct in the generalities. The sixteen lesser Rings were split in two. Seven were gifted by Sauron to kings among the Dwarves, and Nine were gifted to Men. It is said in some sources that the ring that was given to Durin (ancestor of Thorin of the Hobbit) was given not by Sauron, but by Celebrimbor himself, due to the great friendship that existed between the Elves of Eregion and the Dwarves of Moria. Some have suggested that it is for that reason that the line of Durin was able to hold onto their ring for longer than any other. I have not mentioned it here, but that does not mean I am making a categorical statement on the subject. It may or may not be the case in this story; Elladan and Elrohir either did not know, or did not see the need to complicate matters by mentioning it.


	17. To Imladris in Shining Snow

They neared the rift of Imladris a day after the first lowland snows fell deep over Eriador. All the trees of the land were willows of snow and ice, draped in a thick white blanket. Elladan and Elrohir moved over the snow with ease, the two brothers leaving only the barest hint of their passing. For Harry, though, who had not the Elvish constitution nor their lightness of foot, the going was much slower as he crunched through the snow. His breath hung in the air, a faint cloud of shimmering crystals, and the world was silent, like a world captured in glass.

"The warmth of Imladris now draws near," said Elladan, as Harry leaned against a frozen pine tree, and took a moment to rest his weary legs. "If we make good pace this afternoon, we shall spend our evening among the revelry of the Hall of Fire. "

"'A good pace', echoed Harry, his voice tired, and he shook his head. A smile belied his manner, though. "It is not so easy when I cannot walk as you do, atop the snow as if you weigh but nothing."

"It is not our weight that allows us to walk with such light feet," said Elladan, and with that he stopped moving, and dropped a couple of inches into the fine powder snow. "It is but a skill that any could surely learn, with enough time. It is no small virtue to step lightly through the world."

Harry pushed himself upright, his short rest over as the warmth of a distant fireplace called to him. He took his first step, and his foot crunched deep into the snow. "If only everyone had but a few centuries to learn!"

The bright laughter of Elrohir sang through the frozen branches, and he appeared from between the grey pine trunks, a smile upon his face. He had been walking ahead, to ensure a clear path. Even so close to Imladris, the two brothers did not let their care and vigilance slip, though Angmar had fallen long years before, not all of its darkness had been so easily washed away. "It is as you say, if only Men had the patience to learn," he said, by way of greeting.

"Well, perhaps I shall be the first," said Harry, and he tried to imagine how he might he able to do something so impossible. Surely it was another facet of the subtle Elvish magics. Perhaps, if he could do something as well defined as a true spell, then a simple feather-light charm would perhaps permit him to pass over the land as the Elves did.

"That would be a sight to see," said Elladan, now back atop the snow again, his quick and graceful stride easily keeping pace with Harry as he pushed through the snow. "Even Mithrandir has not that skill."

Mithrandir was another name that Harry had heard often from the two brothers, and it was a name he was sure Daewen had mentioned in the brief time he had travelled with her. Another Wizard, of the same Order as Saruman, Morinehtar and Romestámo, and styled the Grey, as Saruman was styled the White. Harry would probably not get the chance to meet Mithrandir upon his arrival at Imladris, he'd been told. Like the two Blue Wizards, Gandalf was a rolling stone, and he seldom tarried in one place for long.

And so they continued through the woods towards the cleft of Imladris, called Rivendell in Westron. Their journey was a long and punishing one, for the brothers could not offer Harry much aid in his battle through the northern snows, and in those few hours he made no headway in learning the Elvish skill of stepping lightly. They reached the hidden way after the sun had set, and a true chill had descended from the clear sky overheard, as it plunged from blue towards a deep purple, though the horizon was ringed in fire.

It was a narrow breach in an unassuming cliff-face, and it was barely wide enough to permit a single man upon a horse, but almost as soon as Harry passed the entrance, he felt the power that dwelt in the Valley beyond, even though he could not yet see it.

It felt as if a warm cloak descended upon him, like the air itself was gifting him warmth where before it had sought to steal it away. There was another feeling too, not unlike the long forgotten sensation when he'd briefly walked under the boughs of Mirkwood, and he'd felt an unseen eye watching him. Now, the feeling was clearer, nearer, and more comforting. In Mirkwood, the presence had been a challenge and a threat, here, in the realm of Imladris, it was nothing less than a heartfelt welcome.

Both of the brothers smiled when they passed the threshold, and Harry could see upon their faces the love of returning home. Harry hoped that he'd get to experience that same pleasure again, some day.

The stone corridor wound downwards, twisting and turning through the rock. It was not long, though, before it opened out and at last Harry saw the valley of Imladris laid out before him.

The gorge was broad, at the western end the river Bruinen plunged into its depths from the high plains above, and filled the air with the music of tumbling water, a white plume of spray climbed high towards the valley lip. At the other end of the valley the last drips of the evening sun trickled over the horizon, against the river's flow, and the barest hint of fire shone behind distant hills.

In between the two, stood the House of Elrond, and the other buildings that made up the settlement of Imladris.

It was as if they had grown up from the valley floor, as much a part of it as the river, or the trees. Among the heavy snow, the Elvish dwellings looked as if they had been sculpted from ice by the hand of the wind, yet they did not look cold. Warm, flickering orange light shone from the many windows, and Harry fancied that even at this distance, the air carried the sound of Elvish gaiety and mirth.

The air of the valley was not cold, the warmth that Harry had felt when stepping into the hidden way had not left the air. Somehow, the air felt like that of an evening in early autumn, after a long, bright day.

Harry and the brothers descended into the valley by way of narrow path, which clung precariously to the sheer rock-face. There was no ice upon the path, though, and the snow did not shift or slide under foot and they were able to make the descent quickly and before the last vestiges of sunlight was lost.

As they reached the bottom of the path, they were separated from the settlement by only a bridge across the lowest portion of the gorge. The bridge swooped across the space, impossibly thin, and with ornate carved railings on either side to make safe even the most unwary of travellers. At the far side of the bridge was a courtyard, and in it, standing in a pool of warm light there were three figures.

Elladan and Elrohir had both already seen the figures, and they smiled broadly as they crossed the bridge. As Harry drew closer, he was able to make out the detail that surely the two Elvish brothers had been able to see even from the top of the gorge-path.

The figures were two Elf-women, and an Elf-man, whom Harry knew could only be Lord Elrond. It was Elrond who commanded the attention. He was attired simply, a long tunic of smooth grey cloth which shimmered in the starlight like the surface of a midnight lake. His hair was long, a twilight shadow cast over his shoulders, but his eyes were bright, even in the torch- and star-light. They held depths that Harry had seldom seen before, save, perhaps, in the eyes of Enelyё, who was the Lady of the Eastern Elves of Wildholt. Upon his head was a thin circlet of silver, and he stood with all of the nobility of the kind of storied king of which legends are told. Most Elves seemed young to Harry's eyes, but Elrond looked ageless.

To Elrond's right, was an Elf Lady of great beauty. Her head was crowned in pure silver, that put the snow to shame with the way it shone in the light of the newly revealed stars. Every now and then the light of the torch held by Elrond caught her hair just so, and it shone as pure gold. She was tall and willowy, though not as tall Elrond, and her eyes shone with a fierce joy at seeing the two brothers returned home. This, then, was surely their mother, Celebrían, and the wife of Elrond.

Last was the Elf-maiden called Arwen, and claimed by her brothers to be the greatest beauty to grace the Elves since Lúthien herself, though Harry knew of Lúthien only by name. Harry could not find it in him to gainsay them, now that he stood before her. The youngest child, and only daughter, of Elrond and Celebrían was a perfect balance between her parents. Her hair was dark, like her father's, but yet it still manages to shine and sparkle like her mother's. She wore a long dress of midnight blue, and upon her flawless face was a broad smile as she regarded her brothers with clear joy.

Lord Elrond spread his arms wide, a broad smile upon his face, and said, his voice deep and melodious, "Mae tollen na mar, yn nín." There was barely a pause, before he turned to Harry and spoke in Westron, "And welcome to you too, Harry of Angmar, the hospitality of Imladris is yours for as long as you would wish it."

A shadow passed across Harry's face, but after a moment it was gone. He bowed low before Lord Elrond. "I thank you, my Lord. But if I may, I would rather not be reminded of my time in that place, it was never my home."

Elrond inclined his head in apology. "Of course, Harry. I am sorry if my words awoke an old pain."

"It is long in the past now," said Harry as he straightened up, and met the Elf lord's eye. "The pain is faded, but still, such memories bear ill thoughts, even after such a long time."

As Harry and Elrond had talked, so too had the brothers with Arwen and Celebrían, now they paired up, Elladan with Arwen and Elrohir with Celebrían, and started making their way up the path through the silent woods to the houses beyond. Elrond half turned, and gestured for Harry to join him in walking. Harry complied with the tacit request.

"When Daewen returned to us in the Autumn after the sack of Angmar, we all were gladdened to hear that you yet lived," said Elrond as they walked behind Elladan and his sister who were walking arm in arm and talking quietly in Sindarin. "That even such absolute darkness could not extinguish your light was a welcome reminder of what it is that we fought for in that war."

"When I was there I was not sure if it was the light that kept me going, or if the dark was merely unwilling to let me go," admitted Harry. He did not often talk of his time in Carn Dûm, and he was a little surprised that he was doing so now, mere moments after meeting the Master of Imladris. "Even now, I am not sure why I still live, whether it be for good or ill."

"It is best not to question such providence," said Elrond. "There were times, when I was young, and lost, when I wondered what it was that _I_ was meant to bring to the world." His eyes rested on the backs of his family walking ahead of them both. "Now, though, such thoughts seem like the distant peals of a long-passed thunderstorm, well on its way out to sea. Darkness passes, Harry, and dawn always comes again, even to a moonless night."

Harry's heart wanted to believe that Lord Elrond was right, that he would find his purpose eventually, but his treacherous mind whispered cynical doubts to him. How could he find his place when he was separated from it by a gulf of worlds so vast and unknowable that he could not comprehend the journey that might need to be undertaken to bridge it?

"I was much saddened when I heard of your plight," Elrond continued, filling up the silence that had briefly fallen between them, "for if you had been persuaded to return with Glorfindel to Imladris then perhaps I would have been able to save you. All believed that you would surely perish in the wilds of Angmar that was."

"I remember," said Harry, for had not Daewen told him as much when they had first met? "Perhaps it would have been better, or perhaps I would have come here and, having seen little else but the tortures of Angmar, found it impossible to leave; a prisoner to my own fears."

"You speak as one with wisdom beyond your years," said Elrond. "But I think you do yourself too little credit. Your passing has been noted, by those who would watch for such things. I do not believe you would ever be held hostage to fear, as you think."

Harry could not help but smile and shake his head. "Perhaps I should be. Where does the line fall, between bravery and foolishness?"

Elrond's melodious laughter drifted across the snows for a moment before he responded. "There can be no bravery without a little bit of foolishness," he said lightly.

"That, I can believe," said Harry, and he laughed. There was something about the valley of Imladris that made worldly concerns seem to melt into the inconsequential.

After brief time, Elrond spoke again, returning to his previous tale, "When Daewen returned to us, much later than expected, and with the glad tidings that you yet lived, and stronger than you had been, we all here rejoiced."

It was a strange thought to Harry that there were people who had never met him, and yet who cared still that he was healthy. He was not sure how to respond. "How is Daewen?" he asked eventually. "Had it not been for her, then perhaps I would not have made it so far as I have."

"She will most likely be with the rest of my household," said Elrond, and his warm smile again made an appearance. "Each night, many gather in my Halls to eat, and sing, and tell tales of Elder days."

"She is there, Ada," said Arwen, who had apparently had half an ear on the conversation being carried out behind her. She released her arm from Elladan and slowed so that Harry and Elrond were now walking level with her. Elladan quickened his pace to join his mother and brother in the lead group. "I saw her listening to Lord Glorfindel as we left. his tales are rarely so short."

They were nearing the main building, now and Harry could hear the sound of many voices issuing from the lit windows ahead. Every now and then, one voice would rise above the others, raised in song, and shortly others would rise to join it, until a chorus of sweet Elvish voices were together in perfect harmony.

"I should warn you," said Arwen, as they climbed the few shallow steps that led up to the broad, sweeping colonnade which enfolded the front of the House of Elrond. "The tale of your escape from Carn Dûm has been told many times in my father's halls. You will no doubt be pursued for others, from your time there, or your travels since. You need not tell them tonight, you are no doubt weary from your travels."

"Thank you for the thought, my Lady," Harry said, and he briefly met her eye and nodded. He found himself feeling absurdly self-conscious in her presence, it felt a little similar to the how he'd felt around Daewen. It was the realisation that no matter how well he presented himself, he would always look a pauper next to any Elf, let alone one who was spoken of as the most lovely of their kind in Middle-earth. "There are many stories I could tell, of far off lands and unlikely peoples, but you are right. I do not have the Elvish constitution, and it has been a long journey through deep snow. Alas, I have not mastered your brothers' ability to walk atop of it."

Arwen laughed, and her father chuckled merrily. "Then you shall sit with us, and take mock council with my Father," she said, and she looked at Elrond, a bright twinkle in her eye. "They would not hazard the ire of the Master of Imladris."

"I fear there are some who might," said Elrond, his voice dry, but with the good humour clear in his ageless face. "But I am sure some scheme can be concocted to keep Lindir's heedless tongue at bay."

Then they walked through large, ornately carved doors of white wood, into the first hall of Elrond's home. It was filled with life and laughter and song, from wall to wall. Hundreds of Elves filled the space, and among them Harry even saw a few Men, who seemed to stand out like a common dandelion among so many roses. Much as Harry was sure he himself stood out. There were many tables set up, and each was of a different size or height from the rest. At some the Elves stood, at others they sat, and at a few they reclined or knelt. Some of the Elves moving through the room carried instruments, and played or sang as they walked. As they passed a table, those who sat there would join in their song, and sometimes it would spread to other nearby tables. Then the musician would move on, or hang their instrument to another, who would take up some new tune.

Harry could not help but smile to look upon it. The lightness of spirit in every one of the residents seemed to be infectious, there was a pure joy to be had in simply experiencing the thrum of life that enlivened the air of the hall. It reminded Harry a little of his first Hogwarts feast, and even that thought could not remain melancholy in the face of the mirth and joy held in this bright and airy hall.

Lord Elrond and his daughter steered Harry through the press of bodies, each one eating or singing or laughing in turn, and sat him at the high table, upon a dais at the far end of the Hall where Elladan, Elrohir and Celebrían had already taken their seats. He spoke quietly to one of the Elves who was stood nearby, and a few moments later food was brought to Harry and set before him. He bade Harry eat.

"It seems your brothers have wasted little time in monopolising your mother," Elrond said to his daughter while Harry chewed on the dish, venison with some vegetables that had been prepared with such care that they were unrecognisable. Elrond had a smile on his lips as he looked upon his wife as she spoke animatedly with their sons.

Arwen sighed a little dramatically. "Isn't it ever so, when they return from some quest or journey?"

Elrond laughed again, for his laughter came easily, and it was a sound like the first rays of summer. "So it is. I wonder how their legend would fare among the Dúnedain should it become known how they dote upon her."

"I think Lord Aranarth knows it well," said Arwen before turning to Harry to explain. "Aranarth is the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, the last remnants of Arthedain. Were you of his people before you fell into the clutches of darkest Angmar?"

"I was not," said Harry, and he could not help but wonder that no dark memories fell upon him at mention of that name. "Though I was captured, I think, at around that time. It was hard to measure time without even the sun for guidance. All I remember is the chanting, and a city in flames."

"Fornost," said Elrond, and his mirth was gone, he was looking at something in the middle of the hall. "The final fall of Arthedain."

"I saw little of it, before I was taken," Harry admitted, he turned his head to see what it was that had taken Elrond's attention.

In the middle of the room, and walking towards them on light feet, was Daewen, appearing as if straight out of a dream. She had been the first that Harry could remember who had shown him kindness, and for that he would always be grateful to her. She approached the table directly, though she held herself respectfully in the sight of the Master of the House. Harry thought he saw some communication pass between the eyes of Daewen, and Arwen but it was only a fleeting moment.

"Hîr vuin," she said to Elrond when she reached the table, her head bowed.

Elrond did not speak, but instead looked to Harry, a gentle smile upon his face.

"Daewen?" Harry said, and his voice came out cracked. "Daewen?" he said again, more clearly.

She looked up, and glanced between Elrond and Harry, confusion alighting her face for a moment before she frowned. "Iston i nîf gîn," she said faintly, her pale grey eyes darting over his face before resting upon his own eyes.

"Harry," she breathed, then her face split into a broad smile. "Harry! So much has changed in you," she said in wonder. "You are recovered? You found that which you sought in the far East?"

"I found healing, at least," Harry said, "but that was not what I first set out to find."

"Home," said Daewen, and another Elf, at Elrond's behest, brought her a chair, and she took her seat near Harry, her eyes alight with interest. "Did you find a way to return?"

Harry shook his head, but not sadly, for he couldn't find it in him while surrounded by such mirth and good cheer. "No, but I found a number of ways that I cannot. I fear my only option now, if there are no more who can help me, is to try and confront the Witch King directly."

Both Arwen and Daewen recoiled at the idea, but Elrond leaned in and spoke simply, "You asked, just moments ago, where the line between bravery and foolishness lay?"

"I know, I know," said Harry, for he knew better than anyone that he could not hope to fight the Witch King. He had hoped that he might be able to create a true wand from the creature that dwelled within Khazad-dûm, and that access to his familiar magic might give him a chance, even if just a small one. That had proven a worse than fruitless undertaking. "I cannot hope to battle him, I do not even know where it is he has been hiding since the fall of Angmar." He scoffed at the way that had come out. "As if that's the reason I'm stuck. The true reason is that even if I could find him, I could not hope to match him."

"So what will you do?" asked Daewen.

"I do not know," Harry admitted. "I—" he sighed "—I just don't know."

"You are welcome here, Harry, until you know what path to take," said Elrond. "If you need advice, or aid, or wisdom, then you need only ask for it."

"Thank you, Lord Elrond," said Harry, and he was grateful, after the trials of Khazad-dûm, that he would have somewhere so agreeable to rest and consider his options.

o-o

Harry awoke early the next morning, as had become his habit after long years of travelling, in the most comfortable bed he'd ever known, and he felt such peace that he'd never known. It felt as if he'd always been pursued, had expectations or doubts upon his shoulders, but such things could not survive the light of Imladris. Even the battle beneath Zirakzigil could not mar his good cheer.

It was a foreign feeling, but one that Harry could not help but delight in. He swung himself out of bed, and quickly dressed in some of the Elvish raiment that had been laid out for his use, as his travelling clothes were to be cleaned. He looked at his staff, and the blackened blade of Daewen, which he had not yet returned, lying upon a low chair in one corner of the beautifully simple room. For the first time in months, he elected to leave them where they lay. He would not need them here. In Imladris, it felt as if no evil could hope to find him.

He stepped out into the winter valley, and took a moment to absorb in the quietude. He breathed deeply, and even the winter air held the scent of spring blossom. The snow had receded a little over the night, and the thick blanket was much reduced. It was still pre-dawn, but the valley was always lit by the hundreds of lamps that littered every building and walk-way; Harry remembered that in the dark they had glittered like captured stars.

He walked along one of the colonnades, and ran his hand over the impossibly smooth wood of the railing, which was all beautiful sweeping lines and breathtaking curves, as if it had, by some chance, grown that way. The wood felt warm to the touch, and he could feel it almost sing beneath his fingers. Was this what Lofar had felt when he had worked with stone in his workshop?

Beyond the walk-way, the trees swayed gently, and every now and then there would be the soft sound of snow falling from their bare branches. In the distance, the muted rumble of the waterfall could be heard, and nearer, there was the merry bubbling of the stream beneath the falls.

"Is it not as beautiful as I said?" said the voice of Daewen behind him.

He turned to see Daewen walking along the walk-way in a dark dress that seemed to cling to the shadows. Beside her was Arwen who wore a dress of pale grey which captured the reflected light from the snow, so that she seemed a ghost in the twilight. Both of them were smiling at him, perhaps sharing in his appreciation of their home.

"It is," Harry admitted, and it was. Perhaps it did not have the grandiose power of the Dwarven Halls, or the depth of emotion of Celfumar in Wildholt, but it was beautiful nonetheless. Of all of the places Harry had been, there were none which could so completely drive away his occasional dark thoughts. "I can see why you were so eager to return."

"Come," said Arwen, "let us show you the house and the valley. You were able to see little of it last night."

"Thank you, my Lady," said Harry, for he was a little unsure of how he should address the daughter of Elrond.

"There is no need to stand on ceremony," said Arwen, and she shared Daewen's smile at Harry's response. "Ours is not a meeting of master and servant, you may use my essi, as all my friends may."

Harry did not want to admit that he didn't know what that meant, so instead he guessed. "Arwen," he said, and smiled when she nodded.

They began walking, around the house of Elrond, to the rear porch, where Daewen said that the winter flowers bloomed amid the snows in the garden.

"I do not doubt that my father will have wish to speak with you about your travels, once you are recovered," said Arwen, as they began their journey.

"There are many stories of your travels already," said Daewen, and a private smile passed between the two Elf-women. "I am sure you will be pursued for them this evening, now that your presence is widely known."

It had become something of a familiar occurrence now, and so Harry accepted it with grace. Few in this world travelled far from the lands of their births, and so they listened with rapt attention to any small tale of distant lands and unknown people.

"I have a few tales I could tell," said Harry eventually. "Though there are others that I fear I am not yet ready to part with in full."

"My brothers said that they found you near Moria," said Arwen, seemingly understanding immediately what it was he was speaking of. "They did not say how you came to be there though, only that any tale could be yours alone to tell, and if you would choose not to, then no-one would deny you."

"The Black Pit must surely hold many horrors," said Daewen. "I wonder if ever the sun has touched the deepest Halls, or if the free air has ever made it into the deeps."

"You should not speak so harshly of it," Harry said as he shook his head. "Horrors there were, yes, but they were not of Dwarvish make. It is a city that surely held majesty unmatched, before its fall, even now, I have never seen such craft."

"My mother spoke to me, once, of a time when she passed through the halls of the Dwarves, which she still calls by the old name Hadhodrond," said Arwen. "She said that they had captured the very stars from the sky and installed them beneath the bones of the earth, that golden fire leapt from wall to wall through vaults of stone, and that great forests of stone stretched into distant mists below those mountains. I had always wished to see that of which she spoke. Grand-mother said that it was second only to Menegroth of old in its beauty."

"I have seen many new places in my travels, but I find it hard to imagine any greater sight than stepping into the First Hall when all is filled with bustling life," said Harry. "But I have not heard of Menegroth?"

"Menegroth was the city of Doriath in Beleriand, and called the Thousand Caves. It was ruled by Elu Thingol, once Elwë Singollo before his travel into the West, who was my sire through many fathers," said Arwen.

"Elwë?" said Harry, for the name seemed familiar to him from somewhere, he tried to remember where he'd heard it. Had Saruman perhaps mentioned it, once?

"His is a long history," said Arwen, "and we have reached the gardens. The annals of my people can perhaps wait. My father, or maybe Lord Glorfindel, would be better suited to telling you those tales."

"Mm," said Harry, mind still in distant places, attempting to bring to mind a once-mentioned name in his murky memories. His thought was interrupted, though, when they rounded a corner, and came into the gardens.

Like all things in Imladris, compared to the great sights Harry had seen on his travels the gardens were no great or grand sight. Instead, they held the same quiet grace and dignity as its inhabitants. The garden was filled with plants that surely had no business flowering in the depths of winter: roses, and lilies and other flowers that Harry could not name. The garden was a gay splash of colour against the white of the snow, and as the early dawn light struggled over the land, setting the snowy woods aflame with its orange light, they seemed to dance in and out of the shadows.

He breathed in, and tasted a faint aroma of summer.

"I spent much of my time here, after returning from travelling with you," said Daewen as they walked through the winding paths, the crunch of snow and gravel beneath their feet was the only other sound in the snow-muffled landscape. "I thought it was cowardice, that led me to desert you."

Harry turned to look at her, a frown upon his face. "Cowardice?" he asked, not understanding.

"I still feared that you would die," she said simply. "I feared that I would have to watch you fade, ignobly grasping to the last threads of life. I still see your face, sometimes, in my dreams. Seeing the gaunt and haunted shadow that was released from Carn Dûm was worse than the battle the day before."

"I admit," said Arwen as Harry stood silent. "I find it hard to imagine you looking such. You seem to my eyes to be as hale and hearty as any Man I've known. Perhaps you have not their strength of arm, but I can sense the power you hold, nonetheless."

Harry smiled at her. "It makes me glad to hear you say that, my Lady… Arwen. Sometimes I fear that the person I see mirrored in reflections is but a costume, and that beneath it I am still the broken creature I once was."

"Then worry no longer," she said. "Now, come, I think you should see the Stone Seat when the dawn light hits the lower falls."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Menegroth was the capital city of Doriath, one of the Sindarin realms of Beleriand in the First Age. It was ruled, as Arwen said, by Elu Thingol who is rather special in the back story of Middle-earth. When the Elves were travelling upon the great journey, a large portion led by Elwë (the name Thingol was then known by), Elwë went to walk in the woods one day, and met Melian. They were both struck by the other's beauty, and so enchanted were they that Elwë missed the boat to Valinor. And so, he and his new wife established the realm of Doriath, which stood unassailable thanks to Melian's power, at least until Thingol was killed by some Dwarves, and Melian left Middle earth (that's another story altogether). Their daughter, Lúthien, was said to be the fairest maiden who ever lived, and Arwen (her great-great-grand-daughter) is said to greatly hold her likeness. Elwë has been mentioned before in this story, briefly.
> 
> It is canon that Celebrían passed through Moria during the second age, as she did so at the same time as her mother, Galadriel. It is this journey that Galadriel is referencing when she speaks kindly to Gimli in Lothlorien in the books.
> 
> Aranarth is also a canon character, though we don't know much about him, really. Even Lindir appears in the books, he always struck me as a talk-first and think-later type.


	18. A Shadow Dimmed in Light

"And here are the forges and workshops where all of the weapons and wares of Imladris are born," said Daewen at last. Arwen and she had led Harry around much of the valley that morning, and Harry again found himself enjoying the simple good cheer of their company.

As Harry had seen with his arrival in the valley, there was much more to the settlement than Elrond's Hall alone. All along the cleft there were more Elvish dwellings, but amongst the trees, and stones, and water, and snow, they simply seemed to belong, as much a part of the valley as anything else. They were so very different again from the Halls of the Dwarves, or the moving settlements of the Wildholt Elves.

Harry did not know how many Elves lived within the Valley, but his guesses would place the number in the thousands. That so many could live within the valley, and yet leave it appearing almost untouched by the civilisation that had grown up within it, was truly impressive.

Perhaps the only buildings that seemed out-of-place amongst the tranquility of the valley were the forges and smithies which were placed near to Elrond's own Hall. Harry looked upon the forges in interest, for they differed greatly in style and design from the forges of the Dwarves. Daewen continued, "This is where Camaenor wrought the blade that I gifted to you."

Harry was reminded again of Daewen's dagger and his intention to return it to her, even if it had been sorely damaged in his battle with the Balrog. "That dagger was a great aid to me," he said as he looked over the Elves who were working at the forge and the woodworking benches. One or two glanced in their direction, but most paid them no heed, so intent were they upon their work. "I had meant to return it to you, if ever I met you again, but I fear that it has now been marred by my battle in the deep halls of Khazad-dûm."

"You need not worry over such things," said Daewen as her head shook in a gentle motion. "Camaenor has already seen fit to forge me another."

One of the smiths approached them as Daewen spoke. He had the dark hair common among the Elves of Imladris, but Harry could see how his profession had influenced his appearance, for his build was much stockier than most Elves Harry had known. "I would like to see the the blade, ruined though you say it be. Perhaps it can be coaxed into new life by the fires that birthed it," he said.

Arwen smiled at the approaching smith, then spoke, "Camaenor, how goes the smithy work?"

"I find myself with little in urgent need of my skills, my Lady," said Camaenor, after offering Arwen a respectful bow. "Peace is a wondrous thing, and it is good for all that the hurt of Angmar is now being healed, but it does mean that call for my favoured craft has waned. I am returned to crafting jewellery and other ornamentation." He turned to Harry. "Do you still have the blade in your possession?"

"I do," said Harry. "Though I left my weapons in the room that Master Elrond assigned to me. It does not seem to me that such things are likely to be needed in this place."

Camaenor nodded. "You speak true, for even during the siege of Imladris, none could breach the girdle that Master Elrond, and the strong arms of his household, like Daewen here, placed around the valley."

"Others are much more worthy of praise in this than I," said Daewen. "Did not Glorfindel drive the Witch King thrice back in his attacks, and the Sons of Elrond claimed the lives of many of our besiegers in their night-time raids."

"Perhaps, but valor is not lessened when it stands alongside greater valor, instead, both shine the brighter," said another voice, and it took Harry only a moment to realise that it was Lord Elrond who had walked up behind them on soundless feet.

None of the others were surprised by his appearance, for surely their Elf ears were acute enough to hear his approach. Daewen did not voice her response, though she inclined her head just slightly, accepting the word of the Master of Imladris.

Camaenor shared a moment of eye contact with Lord Elrond, and when it broke he nodded to Harry. "I should return to my duties," he said, "but I would much like to see that blade, before it comes time for you to leave this valley. My curiosity would also much like to see the staff that you bear, for I have not seen a Wizard's staff that was not made from wood. Perhaps there is something yet for me to learn in its construction. But now, I leave you. You are welcome to return any time." He turned to each of the other Elves in turn. "Lady Arwen, Daewen, my Lord Elrond," he said, then he turned and walked back to his forges.

Lord Elrond turned to Harry, his bright grey eyes meeting Harry's. "Word has been borne hither of your battle in the deeps of Moria, and I have news that I think will be gratefully received."

"I would much like to hear this news," said Harry, and his mind went to work on what it could be. "I think it is also past time that I told you the full story of what happened below the mountain."

"Then come, walk with me to my solar," said Elrond, and he extended his arm in the direction of his Hall, up a long sloping path the wound between the snow-clad trees. "There you may find food and drink as you will require, and we will talk of dark things, and light."

"We will let you go, then," said Arwen with a kindly smile, though Harry felt he sensed a hint of disappointment. "Though the walk is not yet done. There is much still to show you in the lower valley, and in the woods beside the water."

"Thank you, both of you," said Harry, as he looked between both Elf maidens. "I think I needed to see the quiet serenity of Imladris, as you showed it to me. It has been a balm."

"You are welcome, Harry," said Daewen. "It has been a comfort to me too, to see you so recovered."

Then Harry and Elrond began the walk up the snowy path, towards the the Elf Lord's Hall. As they walked, Elrond spoke, "Celebrían will join us, and Glorfindel too, for I feel that they will be able to offer wise counsel in the matters of which you will be speaking. For now, though, I can tell you the good news, that has been passed onto me by the Lady Galadriel."

"Not five days ago, she felt the presence of a Dwarf passing the borders of Laurindórinan, and Lord Celeborn sent some of the Wardens of the Forest to see what may be found. The Dwarf's name is Frór, and he spoke of you," he continued.

Harry stopped immediately in his tracks. "Frór survived?" he asked, shock and joy warring in his voice. "He is well?"

"'Well' is perhaps not how I would describe it," said Elrond sadly, "He now fears all darkness, and will not speak of what occurred beneath the mountain. But he lives, and is in good health. Physically, at least. He has been brought to Caras Galadhon, and there he will receive the best treatment that Elvish hands may give."

"Is there anything I can do for him?"

"I fear not," said Elrond, and he motioned upwards, towards his Hall. They both began walking again, and Elrond continued, "I have heard a little of your abilities, and they are something I would much like to see, but I do not think they will help in this case. Even should you be able to offer aid, the high passes are no longer passable, and with the gates of Moria closed the only route would be long, through the Gap of Calenardhon. It will be weeks before the shorter roads are safe to travel."

Harry accepted the wisdom of Elrond's words. Though he knew better than anyone that the mere presence of a familiar friend would surely be a light in the darkness to Frór, there would be no way to reach him in any good time. Harry did not know the route of which Elrond spoke, but he knew that there was no chance that he could successfully brave the Redhorn Pass with the weather as it was. "I know that you are right, even if that truth hurts. I do not like to idly sit by as my friends suffer."

"I think you do Master Frór a disservice," said Elrond. "He is a Dwarf, and I have not yet met a more hardy folk, though some among my people have called it stubbornness, and oft lamented it. They are not easily cowed by fear or darkness. He will recover, and he will do it quicker than you might imagine."

"I am not so sure," Harry said, thinking back to what had happened in the Dwarvish deeps. "Perhaps once you know my story, you would not be so convinced, either."

They entered the main Hall of Imladris, and Elrond led Harry through it, then up some sweeping stairs, and through a broad corridor, adorned with the same beautiful Elvish workings that were to be found throughout Imladris. At last they came to a door, almost indistinguishable from all the others that lined the walls, and led to unknown rooms and corridors.

The inside of Elrond's chambers were what Harry might call a graceful mess. Saruman's study had been strictly organised and regimented, a place for every book and item, and every item in its place. Elrond's study was much different. Hundreds of books and manuscripts were stacked or lined upon the many shelves, and many more were left upon the tables that were placed here and there throughout the room. Despite the seeming disorder, Harry got the impression that Elrond knew exactly where every book was, and quite possibly that he knew the contents of every one too.

They were not the only people in the study, for Celebrían, whom Harry had only been briefly introduced to, and another Elf, gold of hair and who looked familiar to Harry, though he could not recall a name, had both risen to greet them. Elrond waved them both back into their seats with a small gesture, Celebrían sat, but other Elf opted to stay standing.

"Harry, you know already my wife, Celebrían," said Elrond.

"I hope you are finding the hospitality of Imladris to your satisfaction?" Celebrían asked with a gentle smile.

"It is tranquil beyond anything I have ever known, my Lady," said Harry. "I could imagine nothing finer. Even in the woods of the Eastern Elves, I have not known its like."

Her smile widened just slightly, and she bowed her head to Harry, an action which caused her shining silver hair to spill over her shoulders in a shimmering wave. "We did not hear that you had spent time among the Galenrim of the Woodland Realm, but it gladdens me that you have found peace in our home."

Elrond then pointed to the golden haired Elf whom Harry recognised. "This is Glorfindel. You have met him also, I think, though it was seven long years ago."

Sudden realisation came to Harry, and he blinked as he recognised Glorfindel as the Elf who had translated the foul tongue he had used after he had been released from Angmar. "I apologise for my speech, when first we met, Lord Glorfindel."

"No apology is needed," said Glorfindel, and he closed with Harry to grasp his hand. "Seeing your strength in the face of that darkness lent me some strength of my own, I think. It is well to know that some lights cannot be so easily be snuffed out. We had been passive too long, had we taken a more active role then perhaps you would not have had to suffer so."

"Much has this thought been in my mind also," admitted Elrond. "And so too has it been shared by others among the Wise. But there are other matters to discuss. Please, Harry, take a seat, and begin your tale when you are ready."

Harry was unsure how much detail was needed, so he gave as much as he could, without taking the entire day to weave his tale.

He talked about how he'd been wandered the mountains of the East for more than five years, and how he had hoped to find a magical core for a wand, a true wand, like the ones he had known. Elrond was much interested in Harry's description of the magic from his home, and Glorfindel had had a faraway look upon his face when Harry had described what he could now remember of how he had come to be in Middle-earth. Celebrían listened to the whole story in silence, though bright compassion shone in her eyes.

Harry then talked of how he had come to hear of a beast of flame which had attacked the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, and how he had come to be travelling with a Prince of the line of Durin.

It was not until he talked of their descent into Khazad-dûm that he was stopped.

"A figure walked out of the darkness. Tall, and dark like a living shadow, but with eyes that burned baleful red, and with a great whip of liquid fire that seemed to have a mind of its own," he said.

The reactions from the three listening Elves were very different. Elrond's reaction was subdued, he did not seem surprised and instead sat back with a sombre set upon his features. Celebrían's breath hitched for a moment, and her eyes flickered to Glorfindel, for in that moment he surged upright.

"A Balrog!" he cried, and he stood tall and straight, and it seemed as if light streamed from his form, such was the power that was there to be seen in that moment. "What fell doom was visited upon the line of Durin that they found such mischance in their own Halls?"

"That is what they called it, afterwards," said Harry. "They said it was some kind of demon, ancient and fearful, long thought destroyed."

"Destroyed, or fled, or imprisoned," said Glorfindel, and the moment was over, he subsided back into his seat. "When the pits of Angband were scoured by Eönwë's host, at the end of the War of Wrath, the balrogs there were taken in chains back to Valinor."

"I do not know of that which you speak," Harry admitted, for the named were alien to him and he had heard of no conflict called the War of Wrath. "When was this?"

"Long ago," said Elrond, coming out of his contemplation. "I was but a young Elf at the time, too young for war, and Glorfindel did not see the coming of the host of the Vanyar for he had already passed into Mandos' Halls. There are few left who remember it."

"It was the final war and battle, or so we imagined, that should forever shape the fate of the world. The Dark Lord Morgoth had conquered much of the world, he had lain waste to the great cities of my people, Nargothrond, Menegroth, and Gondolin in turn fell before his armies. Then, when it seemed that all was lost, a lone messenger bore, at great peril, a message to the Valar in the shining west, that described all that had beset us. The Valar answered, and our Elvish kin who had remained in Valinor joined their host. They fell upon Morgoth's host, shields and spears unnumbered, and the beasts of Morgoth were swept before them like so many leaves."

"The greatest of Morgoth's servants were the Balrogs. Fallen Maiar, warped by Morgoth's influence into near mindless beings of destruction and retribution. They were always at the forefront of every battle, and before the coming of the host of the Valar precious few had been felled in battle. Every one that fell is the villain of some tragic tale, for never has any Balrog been slain without great loss of life."

"Once, in the high days of the Elves, there were many with the power to contest such a foe," said Glorfindel sadly. "Now we are few indeed. Celeborn is wise, and has a strong arm, and quick blade, but I do not think he could meet such a foe and long live. Master Elrond could perhaps battle this foe, if his need was great, and Lady Galadriel could meet it in a battle of wills, but there are precious few others."

"You also, Lord Glorfindel," said Celebrían. "Though you are loath to peddle tales of your own exploits, we all know of them."

"Perhaps, my Lady," said Glorfindel. "Though I fear that tale has grown in the telling. It was no easy battle, and I still was borne into the West, even in victory."

"This news troubles me greatly," Elrond admitted, and he rubbed his smooth chin in thought. "We cannot contest such a fell creature in its own lair, and I do not believe it will choose to leave such a mighty fortress. It may be that it casts a long shadow indeed, and that all manner of foul things might hide inside it. Moria could yet become the more fitting name."

"What of the Dwarves?" asked Celebrían, and she reached out to touch Elrond's arm fondly. "Would they join us if we were to march against it?"

"Perhaps," said Elrond, but after a moment's more thought he shook his head. "Or perhaps not. I do not know Thráin as I once knew his grandfather. I fear there will be little will in his people to return to a battle already lost. Surely their wariness will grow all the more once news reaches them of the true nature of Durin's Bane."

"Would the new Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim suffer such a foe on their doorstep?" Glorfindel asked Celebrían.

Celebrían shook her head. "Not lightly, I think."

"But suffer it they will," Elrond finished for her. "They knew already of the Nameless Terror that had awoken there, for surely any Elf would be able to feel such a presence, even if they knew not its precise nature. It is of little difference, though. No Balrog, save perhaps Gothmog himself would chance to pass so close to the realm now protected by Lady Galadriel, and the power she bears with her. The Elven Door is closed in the West, and the East runs too close to Golden Wood for it to chance that way. It shall have a prison more grand than any before it. Lord Celeborn knows this; he will counsel vigilance."

"Give the Dwarves some time," said Harry, though he felt a little lost amid the sea of names and unfamiliar places. "They ill like to have things stolen from them, and the loss of Khazad-dûm is a loss greater than any they have known. Manarul in the East was destroyed almost utterly, but they returned still to oust the beast that had brought it low."

"They will try to return eventually," agreed Elrond, and he did not look pleased. "Though I would counsel against it. It will not be long before Moria is turned into an Orc den, like so many other abandoned Dwarf holdings. Unless the clans band together, I do not think they will have much chance to scour those halls clean. A watch will be set upon the known entrances of the city, but the goblins of the Misty Mountains have their own tunnels, they will gain entrance eventually."

"For my own people," Elrond continued. "They are weary of war. It has been a long dark time in the North, and only now is a new dawn coming. I do not think any of those here would jump gladly into another affray, and fewer still would do so if they knew what it was they were to face. And I would not demand it of them."

"Surely that is not your answer?" said Harry, surprised by their seeming lack of concern. "I once was told that all that needs to happen for evil to prevail, is for good men to do nothing."

"We will not do nothing," said Elrond. "But this has not come at a good time for any of the Free Peoples. The Kingdoms of the Dúnedain are but ashes, and Aranarth leads a shattered people. The Dwarves of the Misty Mountains have lost their last and greatest stronghold there and been scattered North. The people of Laurindórinan are numerous still, even after so many of their number followed their King to the havens at Edhellond and from there across the sea, but their new Lord and Lady have not long held court there. So it goes among all of our allies."

Elrond paused for a moment. "We will still do all that we may, though," he said after just a few moments. "A watch will be set upon the Gates of Moria. My own people will watch the West Gate, and I will contact Lord Celeborn about the East. The war with Angmar has taught us the folly of inaction, and I hope that we will not fall into such complacency again."

Celebrían rejoined the conversation then. "But come, Harry. We did not allow you to finish your telling. How came you to the place where my sons found you?"

It took a moment for Harry to remember where he had been in his telling, but when he did, he continued. He described their flight through the halls of Khazad-dûm, and their eventual coming to the great reservoir, and the ill-fated battle atop the dam.

"I, I do not know exactly how it happened," Harry admitted as he described his final meeting with the Balrog. "But for the first time in years, I was able to perform some magic, if only the barest amount, and it failed after but an instant. A shield of light came into being above Thórir, and turned aside the Balrog's flames. Then it redoubled its efforts, and Thórir was burned alive where he stood, by shield shattered."

"Then it came to me, and I met it with my staff. I had not the strength to battle long, and it was but moments before I was overcome. In the final moment, though, I was able to stab it through its clawed foot with Daewen's dagger. Then, I suppose, the dam could take no more, and it crumbled beneath me as the Balrog reared back and away. I fell into darkness, and I can only assume that the released waters bore me out of the mountain at its roots."

"To do as you did was a feat greater than any I know of in this age, Harry," said Glorfindel after Harry fell silent. "Not since Sauron himself was felled by the spear of Gil-Galad, and the sword of Elendil has such a foe as that been contested in battle."

"Yet it was still a loss, and a costly one," said Harry and he could not help the bitterness that seeped into his tone.

"I will not tell you that it was good," said Elrond seriously. "Nor will I offer you empty comfort by telling you that it meant something. It is the way of war and struggle, victories are seldom glorious or cheaply claimed, but a victory this was. The foe is now known to us, as it surely would not be had you not ventured there. How many lives will be saved, now that the danger that lurks in Moria is known? Who might have been tempted to travel there who now will be warded off?"

Elrond stood up and paced to one of the windows which looked out over the winter-deep valley. "A victory is not a moment, Harry," he said without looking around. "It is ever ongoing. It is the struggle that achieved it, and the peace that follows. It is no one moment, and it comes to no one person, but it is every moment, and it must be counted against every one who feels its effects. It is every sunrise that comes the brighter for the passing of the shadow. Do not measure your victories by the cheer they bring you, for that will never come. Measure them by the cheer your children may know, which they would not before."

There was silence in the room when Elrond finished speaking, and in it Celebrían moved silently to stand by her husband and Harry contemplated his words. Harry felt that Elrond's words were the ones he had used for his own benefit more than once in the past. Somehow, they did help. It was something he surely should have realised for himself, but now that he had heard it spoken aloud, he knew it was true.

"Thank you, Lord Elrond. I think I needed to hear that."

"You would have realised it yourself, I think," said Elrond, and he turned be to the room. He clasped Celebrían's hand for a moment and held her gaze, some wordless communication passing between them in that moment, then he looked at Harry. "Now, I promised you food when I brought you here, and though you hide it well, I know that Men have a greater appetite than we Elves." As he spoke the door to the study opened, and a few Elves entered, each carrying a small dish of food. "Please, eat, and rid yourself of remembered darkness."

o-o

The days slipped by, and snows came and went and returned. Harry oft found himself walking the lower valley where he regularly came across the Elves who lived there. Sometimes he found himself walking with them as they enjoyed the quiet. Some would sing as they walked, songs which Harry could not follow, others would dance. Still others would sit for long hours, even through the night, listening to the trees and to the distant rumble of the falls at the head of the valley.

As was his way, he found himself delighting in the ways of Elrond's people. Many an evening or day would be spent among them, observing their trade or art. To an outsider it would seem that the Elves knew no hardship or toil but that was not strictly true. Each of them had a job, of sorts, though to see them working it would be hard to imagine that they thought of it as work.

The few farmers that tilled the lower valley to supply Imladris with grain did so with a smile and a song, and as with so many things of Elvish make, it was more like the land simply afforded them what they needed with little effort.

There were hunters too, and a few who in the warmer times would forage through the wilderness near to Imladris. There were traders too, and craftsmen of every ilk and the common thread that every-one excelled at their trade to such an extent that rarely did they have to spend more than a few hours each day devoted to their craft. The rest was devoted to song and merrymaking.

Harry had even taken close to a week to join one of the Elves on a hunting trip beyond the valley. Elfaron was young by the standards of his people, barely more than three hundred years old, and his wife, Caleniel was younger still. They seemed almost like children in how they would laugh and play, and yet when Harry joined Elfaron on a hunt he saw the truth of a being who had spent decades learning the ways of animals.

The journey was an educational one, for Elfaron was only too happy to try and school Harry in the hunting techniques of his people. He taught Harry how to remain downwind of his quarry, and how to tell when the wind was the change. He told him how to recognise the places where his scent might linger and scare the animals off. Harry learned how to move, if not silently, then at least more quietly than he had. He learned how to use the snow and brush to deaden the noise of his passing, and he learned how to _look_ at a wood, a maze of trees and brush, and to see his quarry amid all the visual noise.

Harry wondered how a Lord like Glorfindel or Elrond would fare at war. Surely he they would be a sight to behold, the beauty of Elves grace turned into a fearful weapon. He doubted that any normal Man could hope to stand in their way. He had toyed, then, with the idea of asking them to continue where Wambald and Thiudulf had left off, but he decided, in the end, that he would not trouble them. He did not have a useful weapon, after all.

And so, he was once again walking the woods at the mouth of the Valley, when he heard the familiar sound of Elvish singing, and he knew that it would be coming from a clearing upon the banks of one of the streams that ran from the valley walls into the Bruinen as it carved through the unyielding stone. Though it was not an unfamiliar sound in the blessed Elvish valley, Harry still revelled in it every time he heard it.

The Elves had a true talent for music that Harry could scarcely imagine. They could communicate the depths of despair, and their heights of joy through the simplest of verses. There was something magical about the way that their words, even though he could understand them not, could grasp at his heart and make him feel as though he knew them, as the singer knew them. This singer had a voice which even among the Elves, would be counted among the most fair.

He made his way slowly along the path towards the singer, and shortly he came into the clearing.

A thin covering of snow, left over from a fall two nights previously, lay over the clearing, leaving it a perfect carpet of white. A few winter blooms had broken through the snow near the river, and they shone in colours of blue, and silver and gold. The stream burbled happily, and upon its surface the golden light of the early morning leapt joyfully. Sat upon a stone by the brook was the Elf maiden, her eyes closed as she greeted the new morning with her song. Her hair shone black in the golden sunlight, and she was surrounded by the winter flowers, their colours borrowed by the long dress she wore.

As Harry neared she turned, and he recognised the Arwen, called the Evenstar of her people.

"Galu, Harry," she said with a glad smile which reflected in her pale grey eyes. "This was the place that I had hoped to show you, when Daewen and I offered to show you the lower valley. It seems that you have found it yourself. How do you like it?"

"It is beautiful," said Harry honestly. "Though I am a little late this morning. It is the dawn when this place shines most."

"It is," said Arwen, and she looked out over the lands beyond the valley, which had been draped in a golden blanket. "You have been gone for some days, I heard from Daewen that you travelled out into the wilds on a hunt."

"I did," said Harry, and he took a seat alongside her. He glanced across at her profile, still looking out over the lands beyond. "Do you get to travel out there often?"

She shook her head. "Not often, no. These lands have not been safe for a long time," she said sadly. "Not since Angmar began its rise. Once, before the shadow darkened this land, I would sometimes travel to the havens at Lindon or Belfalas with my mother, but it has been centuries since such a journey was safe."

"It is safe now though, is it not?"

"Safer, but not yet safe," said Arwen. "The foulness of Angmar is not easily removed, and I fear that this land will feel it for a long time yet to come. I do hope that I will soon be able to visit Laurindórinan, where my grand-parents now rule."

"Let us not speak of that, though," she said, and she turned to look at Harry. "Will you be joining us for the Turuhalmë celebrations two days hence?"

Harry had already been told of the holiday, which was a celebration of the winter solstice. For the Elves it was the end of the waning of a year, and the beginning of new birth, the first herald of spring.

"For the meal at least," said Harry. "I am not familiar with the other aspects of it, I would not go where I am not wanted."

"That will not do!" said Arwen severely, though she had a smile upon her face. "You cannot feast with us if you do not join us in i hiri, it is tradition. You can join my family in our search, I am sure they all would welcome your presence."

"I would not wish to impose on a family occasion," Harry said, a little uneasy at the thought. From what he had gathered, Turuhalmë was something like Christmas among the Elves, though they did not commonly give gifts except among the closest of kin.

Arwen smiled, and Harry could not help but feel that he'd been outmanoeuvred. "Then it is well that it is not my idea at all. Nana suggested it, and Ada agreed with her, as he always does. My brothers also much desire to get more stories from your travels in the East, you have been quiet on what you found there."

"Very well," said Harry, and he shook his head and smiled. "I can see when I am beaten. I will join you all for the morning celebration, though you will have to guide me in what I am to do."

Her smile grew then, and it seemed as if the clearing was lit just a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elrond has, of course, already been in contact with Galadriel, for the Wise are capable of the purest form of communication; mind-to-mind. I had hoped to put some explanation of it into this chapter, but that scene ran a little long, so it'll probably pop up some time later instead.
> 
> For those who are trying to keep a handle on just when we are at the moment, this chapter gives you a rough idea, but let me state that we're currently in the winter of 1982. Galadriel and Celeborn moved into Lothlorien (at this time called Laurindórinan) in 1981. Turuhalmë is the winter solstice celebration. It's kinda dubiously canon. It is mentioned in early writings (The Book of Lost Tales), but not in the Lord of the Rings (and you'd think it would be as Frodo leaves Rivendell shortly after what would be the winter solstice). My current working 'I'm making it up as I go along' is that the Winter Solstice in the third age actually takes place in January rather than December. This isn't entirely unrealistic, as the Solstice would 'regress' through the year without the systems that the gregorian calendar puts in place to keep it fixed, thus over the 8-9 thousand years that have passed since the Third Age, it has fallen back a couple of weeks, now placing it in December. Yeah, I probably gave it too much thought.
> 
> The Gap of Calenardhon is the old name for the Gap of Rohan (as Rohan doesn't currently exist).
> 
> 'Galenrim' is a term I made up to mean the 'Green-people', the Elves of Mirkwood (Which was once called Greenwood, Eryn Galen).


	19. Then Renewed by the Dawn

"This is truly amazing work," said Camaenor as he ran his hands softly over the stone- and metal-work of Harry's staff.

They were both stood outside the forges where Camaenor was often to be found. Even during the cold depths of winter, his forges were kept hot, for he said that to let the fires die was to lose a friend. It was early in the morning, and Harry had brought his two weapons to Camaenor for inspection, as he had requested. Harry hoped that perhaps it would be possible to reforge Daewen's blade so that he might return it to her during the gift-giving of Turuhalmë.

Around them, a few Elves worked. Two of Camaenor's apprentices were working together on some fitting, and another Elf was a little further away, working upon a small wooden statue of someone that looked remarkably like Arwen.

"I have seen, in my time, much of the work of Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-mírdain," said Camaenor as he turned the staff over in his hands. "They could not forge metal into such beautiful forms, for all their mastery. I have seen a few weapons that were forged in Gondolin of old, Aeglos, the spear of Ereinion Gil-Galad resides in the valley under the protection of our Lord, it has not the natural strength of this." Camaenor's eyes broke from the staff to meet Harry's own. "How came you by this?"

"It was made for me, by Saruman the White and Lofar of the Ironfists," said Harry. "It was gifted to me when I left Ironhaunt to travel the northern reaches of the Red Mountains."

"The Orocarni?" Camaenor asked, though Harry could tell that the question was not addressed to him. "The Dwarves have this craft?" He looked up at Harry again. "Saruman is no Dwarvish name."

"He is a Wizard, the leader of their Order, I think he is known to your people as Curunír."

"I know him not," Camaenor admitted. "But it is clear to see that he is a master of his craft, unlike any I have known. Perhaps even the equal of the greatest of the Elvish smiths. Even so, to see such a thing is strange to me. I have known only Mithrandir, on his occasional visits to this Valley, but his staff is made of some wood, though I know not what breed."

"Cedar," said a voice, and Harry turned to see the Elf that had been working on the wooden statuette had chosen to join their conversation. "It is a fitting wood for a wizard, I think."

"Laerornon, perhaps you can guide me to an understanding of this thing," said Camaenor, and Harry could see the familiarity the two Elves shared. He supposed that they must have worked together for a great many long years.

"I do not know that I can," said the Elf, whom Harry now knew to be named Laerornon. "For my knowledge does not lie in the working of metal or stone or other dead things."

Nonetheless, he broke off from his work on the statuette and set down his tools before joining Harry and Camaenor where they sat in the warm shadow of the ever-bright forges. Camaenor handed him the staff, and his eyes grew alight with interest when his hands touched the staff.

"This is wondrous craft indeed," he said after a long moment looking over the ornate staff of stone and steel. "I can feel within it a heartbeat, not unlike I would think to find in a staff of wood. It is slow, and it is distant, but it is stronger for it. You said that it was created by one of the Istari?" he asked as he turned to Harry.

"And the Master Stonemason of Ironhaunt," said Harry. "I know I felt something within it that I have not felt before, but I could not tell you what it was I was feeling."

"Then you have good senses, for a Man," said Laerornon with an absent minded nod, his attention drawn to the impossibly detailed pattern of white steel and stone.

"There is life in all things," said Camaenor, by way of explanation. "In animals it is most obvious, of course, for it moves them to live and play and sing and all those other things that living creatures do. So too is it found in trees, in branch and bough, though it be hidden from the eyes of those who will not see. Then there are other materials, like stone or steel which have no life of their own, no will, nor drive, but which can be… moulded to echo the will of those who craft them."

"There is an old story, but a side-story in truth, a minor detail among the great tales of the First Age. It is the tale of Eöl, the Dark Elf, and the blade he made as begrudging payment to the King of Doriath. There were few finer blades to be found in Middle-earth than those twin blades, forged from the heart of a fallen star, which could cut through iron and steel as if they were but cloth. But Eöl resented the payment, and so the blade drank in his ill-will and as it was heated and quenched, half a hundred times, it grew black, and gained a fell will of its own."

"It was known ever after as a blade of ill-fate," said Camaenor, and she shook his head sadly. "It was wielded long by Túrin, who called himself Master of Fate, in his hubris. If he truly was Master of his own Fate, then I cannot speak to what madness must have possessed him to such fell deeds as he is storied. His is one of the saddest tales of that Age, an Age which knew more strife in its short years than in all the years since."

"You do not believe that this staff bears such ill-will?" Harry asked, worried by the direction in which the story appeared to have gone.

"No!" said Camaenor immediately. "Far from it indeed."

Laerornon spoke then, "It has not the will of its craftsman instilled within it. That is what is so strange to us, and it perhaps explains why it feels strange even to you."

"It is as if it were wood, not stone and metal," said Camaenor.

"And yet I would say that it feels unlike any wood I have ever known," said Laerornon, quickly cutting across Camaenor's words. Reluctantly, he passed the staff back to Harry, though his eyes lingered upon it, curiosity still kindled there.

It was interesting to hear the opinions of the two master craftsmen, but it seemed to Harry that they had not the same appreciation for the life that could be possessed by stone, as had been explained to him long ago by the very same Stonemason who had had a hand in the creation of the very staff that now rested in his hands.

"To hear them speak it, I think the Dwarves would disagree with you about the life that may be found in stone," said Harry.

"Perhaps," said Laerornon, though he did not seem to give that idea much thought. "But their crafts are much reduced now, compared to the masterworks they could produce of old. I doubt that there are any among them who could coax such life from dead rock as was once done by the Dwarves of Belegost when the Halls of Menegroth were young. I still think you would be better suited by a staff of wood."

Camaenor laughed happily. "And I would say that you would be better served by true steel. If half of the tales of your travels are true, then you surely could have used something more than a staff and a dagger on your travels."

"I have never trained in the use of a sword," Harry said by way of explanation. "And it seems to me that a man who carries a sword which he cannot use, is worse served than he who has none."

"I have heard that said before," said Camaenor as he shook his head, "but I do not find myself believing it. Perhaps they are more wont to injure themselves, or to fight when instead they should have run, but that is a fleeting concern. Every Man, Elf or Dwarf who has wielded a sword in battle once wielded one in ignorance. I think you would do well to carry one with you, should you decide to travel beyond the valley again. The dark days of Angmar, and the shadow that they still cast, have shown that there are precious few safe places in this world."

"Your argument is a good one," Harry admitted readily, though he still was not comfortable with the idea of wearing the mantle of warrior. "Perhaps that is a conversation for another time. I wished to ask you about something else."

Harry pulled Daewen's dagger from where he had strapped it at his side. The blade was still blackened, and now that he looked closely, there were flecks of red which ran through it, like fire in thick smoke. The edge, which had once shone like distant fire in the sun had been dulled by his battle with the Balrog, though its edge yet remained sharp. The terrible heat of its malign flames had warped and curved the dagger, so that it was now close to unusable. He presented it to Camaenor. "I wondered if you might be able to help me with this."

"I remember this blade," said Camaenor, as he reached out to take it, "as I remember every blade I have forged. Never have I seen my own work brought to such a terrible state."

"You have heard by now of the Balrog that resides beneath Moria." Harry knew that that news had spread quickly throughout the valley. Though none among them, besides a few of the greatest and oldest of the Elf Lords, had encountered one of that fell kin, they were much storied in their histories. "I used this dagger to stab it in the foot, when I was sure that I was at my uttermost end."

Camaenor looked surprised. "I do not speak from modesty when I say that I would not have expected one of my blades to accomplish such a feat. Perhaps the weapons produced by the Elves of Eregion could have achieved it, and it is known that the weaponsmiths of Gondolin long lost had the mastery needed to forge such a thing." He raised his gaze to Harry, and for a moment his gaze flickered to the staff. "I think perhaps that the ability to wound that creature was not to be found in the steel, but in the hand that wielded it."

"Would it be within your abilities to fix?"

Amusement danced in Laerornon's eyes, and Camaenor laughed merrily as they shared some private joke. "Sometimes I could almost believe you have Elvish grace, and yet at others I am reminded that you see the world through the eyes of a Man," said Camaenor by way of explanation. "To we Elves, there is no way to 'fix' a thing, as Men would put it, for that would require nothing less than to turn back time. I could take this blade, and hilt, and from them forge some new weapon that might remember some of the past glory of this dagger, but it would not be _this_ dagger. It would be a new weapon, born on a different day and in different circumstances. It would have breathed different fires, and drank different waters."

Camaenor raised his hand and forestalled Harry's next words. "That is not to say that I will not do it. I was merely surprised by the way you viewed the act of sub-creation, as it were. I should warn you, though, that if it is _this_ dagger you wish to return, then you would do well to leave it well alone. If I were to _fix_ it as you suggest, then you would be gifting to your friend a new dagger; the child, as it were, of the one she gave you."

"I… am unsure," said Harry, unhappy at the thought of presenting Daewen with a broken ruin of what once was. "What would you suggest?"

"The blade that you have now is that one that holds meaning to her, and to you," said Laerornon. "I do not know your friend well, but I think that holds more worth than any single dagger."

"This too is my belief," said Camaenor with a nod as he handed the once beautiful dagger back to Harry. "I have already created her a replacement for the dagger in your hand, and it is every bit as fine as this once was. She has no need of another, and we Elves value our memories and experiences far above our material possessions."

Harry accepted their advice with a grateful smile. He stood, and tucked the dagger back into his belt as he thanked them for their counsel. As he returned to Elrond's Hall after taking his leave, he still thought it a strange thing to value, for he would not have revelled in such a dark and twisted reminder. He had much to learn still, of the Elves and their thoughts.

o-o

It was not Christmas, but it was perhaps the closest thing to it that Harry would find in Middle-earth.

Harry had learned long ago that Elves slept little, for they needed scant few hours to feel completely refreshed and invigorated. They would instead do something akin to meditation, where they would allow their mind to rest, but they were not completely unconscious, and their eyes were open and still alert to the world around them. So it was that Elrond's people rose early on the morning of the winter solstice, called by them Turuhalmë, and gathered in the Hall of Fire, where for the first time since Harry's arrival, the great fire-pit at the center of the room had been allowed to burn down to little more than glowing embers.

As a Man, Harry required more sleep than his hosts, but after long years of hardships and travelling, he had found that he was able to go without sleep for a day or two without great difficulty. He would become fatigued, and his mind would become sluggish, but he could do it. On the morning of Turuhalmë, he awoke and rose with the Elves, and he did not lament the lost sleep.

So he joined them around the dim embers in the Hall of Fire, and the last flickering remnants of the year just passed. The Elves, as was often their way, raised their voices in song, a beautiful melody which mourned the loss of the year now passed, and all the days that had gone with it, never to return.

They gathered in groups in the dim light, for the sun was yet far beneath the horizon and only the dull glow of the dying embers illuminated the room, and they told stories of the joys and woes that had come and gone. Births, and deaths, victories and defeats, great works of craft, or poetry or song, all were remembered, and their days were released into history, never to return save in memory, and dreams, or upon the pages of a dusty tome, in some forgotten library corner.

Lord Elrond spoke of the joy he had felt at seeing his sons return after a year away, aiding the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel in their journey to Laurindórinand, and their new realm. He described the peace that was still returning to the North after the war with Angmar, and how he had great hopes of Aranarth, who had named himself Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and now led his people in defense of the folk who still lived among the ruins of the old Kingdoms.

His wife joined him, and she spoke of the healing that had come to the valley, and all of the North, in the years since Angmar's fall. She mourned the great city of Khazad-dûm, for now it was clear that the doors would not open again soon, for the darkness beyond would hold them fast. She too spoke of her joy at the safe return of her sons, and her happiness that her mother had found safe haven in the Golden Wood.

And so it was for every Elf of Elrond's house. Each in their turn spoke of their joys and sorrows, their trials, their victories and their defeats. Harry, too, joined them after a time, and he found himself more open than ever before as he spoke of the loss of Thorir, his friends for many years, alongside Flói, whom Harry had not known nearly so well, but had come to appreciate in the short time he'd known him.

He remembered happiness, of those times when Thorir and he had shared in adventures together as they visited the many small Dwarvish holds that littered the northern Orocarni. Then he had remembered the hope he had felt after meeting Frór and his companion amid the ruins of Manarul, and the determination to follow the new road to its conclusion. There was even joy, when he'd rediscovered an old acquaintance, and found them the better for their momentary encounter with him a few short years ago. He remembered despair, and the abandonment of hope.

As the dark waters crashed down upon him, a single voice was raised in song, and, like the first star to appear in the sky after a sunset, it was soon joined by others:

_A brennil lim! Sui loss faen!  
_ _Athan annui aearath  
_ _Sí reniam, calad ammen  
_ _min galadhremmin ennorath._

_A Elbereth! Gilthoniel!  
_ _Gael thûl lín, hin lín míriel!  
_ _Faen sui loss! Allen linnar  
_ _Mi nôr chae athan Aear._

Harry looked around at them as the final notes faded. Among the singers he saw Daewen, Celebrían, Glorfindel, and all of the children of Elrond, and the Master of Rivendell looked upon Harry with an understanding smile upon his ageless features. The Hall fell into silence just as the dawn sun rose high enough for its warmth to touch the deeper Valley. The warm light struck the Valley walls, and high trees, clad in ice and snow, and shone back even brighter into the Hall of Fire, so that it was lit almost as if it was the height of summer. The light of a new year shone upon them all, and it felt vibrant, and young, and hopeful.

The coming of the new year caused the Hall to be filled with new songs and stories, now filled with hopes, wishes and fears for the year to come. As they sang, they began to collect into smaller groups, and those groups then walked out into the new dawn light, and the Valley was filled with their song.

As they did so, Harry found himself unsure. Daewen had joined a group, whom Harry recognised as some of her closest friends, and her mother, and he did not wish to intrude upon them. His indecision lasted but a moment, though, before Celebrían was at his side, and looping her arm around his. She was soon joined by Arwen, and Elrond, and the rest of their family. "You are welcome to join us, Harry, if you wish."

Harry looked to Elrond, who merely smiled, seemingly unsurprised by Harry's inclusion. His sons had already set out, and were making for the Valley, their voices mingling with all the others. Arwen too was there beside Elrond, and she also smiled warmly at Harry, though there was a little more youthful exuberance than could be seen upon the features of her father.

Together they made their way through the doors of Elrond's Hall, which had been thrown wide to allow the sun entry into the deepest parts of the Hall of Fire. Harry could not join them in their songs, for he had not yet learned near enough of the Sindarin tongue to understand even the barest few words. He found their joy so infectious, though, that he could not help but hum along with them, even though he had never considered himself much of a singer.

They continued down the short path that ran into the wooded lower Valley, to begin what was called by the Elves 'i hiri', which meant 'the finding' in one of their tongues. Harry understood it as being a little similar to a yule log, though Harry was still far from familiar with that tradition. They went out into the woods in search of log or branch or even, in a few cases, a single twig, which they would then bring back to their home and hearth. The fire that had burned there would then be rekindled with the collected offerings, and would burn for all the days through the year to come.

Harry understood that the roots of the tradition were very old indeed, and when asked Glorfindel had told him that he remembered the great march when the first finding had happened. He spoke not of how it had come about, but he described a march through grinding ice, which the Elves called the 'Helcaraxё'. Harry knew that Elves did not feel the cold like Men, and yet the cold they had felt during that march, and which was able to bring a chill even to Glorfindel's summer voice, had levied a bitter toll upon them. Elves did not need food like Men, but that journey had taught them the true meaning of hunger.

Yet still they had marched, though more than half their number had chosen to abandon their bodies and return into the warm light of the West. No Sun had there been to light their way, or warm their faces, not even a moon to illuminate the eternal night through which they marched, for they had not yet come into being.

So it was that they crossed the grinding ice, and left many of their number behind, lost in the screaming of the winter gales which bore with them shards of ice like the cruellest glass. When it seemed that all hope was lost, a great new lamp rose into the sky, and with it the Moon brought the Elves new hope. Its coming heralded the end of the worst of the hardships and soon the ice and snow was retreating from the land. When the land again became green, he Elves split up, and hunted down every length of wood or dry material they could find. They built there a great pyre, to ward away not only the prowling creatures of Morgoth, but the mere memory of the cold they had endured.

When the pyre was alit, and tall flames sent new ephemeral stars spinning into the sky, the sun rose in the east for the first time, and the tradition of 'i hiri' was born.

The search was no easy one, for snow still lay heavy upon the ground in many places. Lord Elrond, led them to a part of the valley where the trees grew ever-green, and where only the lightest dusting of snow had reached the ground. There the trees created vaults of snow that soared overhead, supported upon wooden buttresses. Numinous silence filled the aisles that ran here and there beneath the sparkling roof, which shone with light as the new sun trickled over the deeper reaches of the valley.

"I remember this," said Elrond almost as soon as they entered, and he made his way to where a single birch tree stood among the dark fir trees. A limb had fallen from one of the taller firs, and taken with it one of the lower branches of the birch tree. Elrond shared a look with Celebrían, and Harry fancied he could almost hear the words of affection that were silently passed between them then.

Celebrían moved over to where Elrond was standing and after a moment's contemplation, stooped to pick up the fir branch that had brought the birch limb to the ground. "I think it fitting," was all she said.

The rest of the group took much longer in their choices. Elladan and Elrohir both decided upon a birch branch, for they said they felt a kinship with the tree, but they could not decide on any single bough or twig, for they said that it was the tree itself that was beautiful to them, not some small part of it. Elrond forbade them trying to uproot it, though Harry was almost sure that they all were only speaking in jest.

"What of your choice, Muinthel?" Elladan asked Arwen, after finally settling on one of the smaller Elm branches that had lain beside the one Elrond had chosen.

Arwen smiled patiently, then shook her head as she turned, and cast around for her own choice. Her eyes alighted upon a fallen tree, just beyond the copse. The stump jutted from the ground, lifeless and grey and beside it the once proud tree lay, covered in moss and the light dusting of snow.

And yet, around the base of the trunk, and even around the fallen trunk, new growth was beginning to spring. The new shoots were thin, and almost lost amid the wreckage of the old Willow tree which had once stood apart from the rest of the wood, until some unknown storm had at last proved too much for it to tolerate.

She ran the tips of her fingers over the tiny saplings, and closed her eyes as if listening to something that Harry could not hear. Her already fair features softened further, but despite that, she shook her head. "No, it would not be right," she said, and she did not explain further.

They continued on through the woods as Harry and Arwen looked for their own offerings. Harry did not know what it was he was looking for. To him, one tree was much the same as any other. He knew that Laerornon would surely disagree, and Ollivander too, but whatever it was that they saw in them, Harry could not.

He trailed his hands over each trunk and branch as he passed them by, as he saw Arwen do but where it seemed as if Arwen would be listening to something, Harry could hear only the distant drip of snow melting in the new sun, and the gentle sigh of wind in the branches.

"What is it you are listening for?" Harry asked, after more than an hour had passed. Surely all of the rest of Elrond's people had returned to his hearth already.

"I do not know," Arwen said, looking up from where she was communing with a gnarled pine tree. "It is not something you can know, until you hear it. When you find it, it will just feel right."

"To listen to the trees is a skill that some among our people learned, years ago," said Elrond. The rest of their group had been following them in their search, and talking quietly between themselves in their own tongue. "Even the most skilled among them would have difficulty hearing anything during the depths of winter, but it is not a skill that I, or many among the Noldor, possess."

"Then how did you make your choice?" Harry asked, feeling exasperated at the Elvish ability to talk in circles when it suited them.

"The tree from which my offering hails, was where I first met Celebrían," he said simply.

Harry stopped. "That's it? It's just some personal significance?"

"I would not say it was 'just' anything. But yes, it is personal significance," said Elrond.

Harry's shoulders slumped. Had he only known that before, then he surely would have chosen some branch from the Holly tree they had passed earlier. He couldn't help but laugh. "You know," he said between chuckles, "I had thought there would be more to it? It seems that there so often is. I have heard stonemasons talk about the voice and life that stone may possess. I have heard about the memory of metal, and the living will of wood. I suppose I had expected there to be some new thing, of which I was ignorant."

"All that you say may be true," said Elrond, and he set his hand gently upon the back of Harry's shoulder. "Yet you cannot allow those things to steer you where you would not wish to go. Few greater evils have been committed, than by those who believed they were necessary, or fated."

"I think I have it!" said Arwen, her glad voice drawing Harry and Elrond from their conversation. When his gaze found her, she was standing by a pine tree that had at some point been struck by lightning, which had caused it to split nearly clean in two. Despite that damage, and the burned bark, and a few places where the boiled sap within had blasted great portions of the trunk away completely, it was still growing strong.

Arwen reached into the gap that separated the still growing part of the tree, from the other blackened collapsed parts, and pulled from it a thin green shoot, upon which a were a few small clusters of needles. Next to the selections made by her family it seemed a paltry thing, but it was clear to see that she was happy with her choice.

"So it seems like I am the last to choose," said Harry, and he shifted uneasily. "Perhaps we should just return, I think I saw something that might have been suitable on the way here, but I did not understand for what I was meant to be searching."

"You need not rush," said Elrond, and beside him Celebrían nodded encouragingly. "For it is well known among my people that some among us may take all the day, from the earliest dawn to the last light of dusk to make their own choices."

"Thank you," said Harry, though he decided that he would select some cutting from the next tree that he saw. He felt self-conscious enough intruding upon their family day, he did not wish to impose any more upon them.

Harry opted then to walk along the path that would eventually take them back to the upper Valley, where Elrond's Hall resided. They had not stepped far along that path before Harry's eye fell upon another fallen tree.

Or, rather, a partially fallen tree. It had fallen to such an angle that parts of the trunk ran nearly parallel to the ground, and it had clearly been like that for a number of years, for the last few feet of it at the tip had turned upwards again, seeking out the sun which shone above. The roots had been pulled nearly clear from the ground, when it had fallen, but so entangled were they with those of another tree that it had been kept from reaching the ground, and had even managed to re-root itself by some miracle.

Beneath it, sheltered from the worst of the snow and the wind was a bed of star-like flowers with white-gold petals. His original intention to forget about any necessary 'significance' forgotten, Harry quickly crossed the distance to the tree.

He stepped carefully through the carpet of flowers to reach the tree, and from it he set his hand upon a single thick branch. It was as thick around as his arm, and there was little chance that he would be able to break it free with ease. He gave it an experimental push and nearly lost his balance when it broke off cleanly at the base.

He held it in his hands, and he understood what it was that Elrond had meant. It didn't speak to him, it was not like the first time he had held his wand, or been given his staff by Saruman. It was simply a feeling of kinship, as if he could understand what it was that the tree had been through.

"It is rare to see Niphredil growing so far north, and so early in the season," said Elrond and for a moment Harry thought he saw a flash of sadness, but it was gone in a moment replaced by his familiar warm smile, which could put the winter sun to shame. "I am glad you have made a choice, and that you are happy with it. Now, come. We shall return to the Hall, and offer our choices to the hearth, and welcome in the new year with glad hearts and joyous songs."

They soon returned to Elrond's Hall, and as the Master of Rivendell had said, many of his Kin had not yet returned from their search. Those who had, had collected a very diverse selection of offerings. One had even returned with an entire holly bush, and had left a trail of spiky leaves which ran the full length of the Hall.

The Elves who had returned were grouped around the fire, which was by now only glowing with the faintest light, which escaped from a few breaks in the grey ash that coated the final few remnants.

With Elrond's return, they parted to allow him, and his family, through to the fire, and with no ceremony at all, Elrond threw his offering into the fire pit, where it broke through the ash to the embers below that still held their warmth, insulated by the ash which lay over them. With a crunching noise it broke through, and sent a cloud of cinders spinning into the air. They waited then, until, after a few short minutes, the wood began to crack and spit, and flames sprung from beneath it. It seemed that that was the signal, for as soon as that happened, the other Elves added their own choices.

Soon the fire was roaring again, as it had been when Harry had first entered the Elrond's Halls weeks ago.

A new year had begun, and Harry had an idea of what it was he should do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of back story in this chapter, but much of it is non canon.
> 
> So, as I mentioned in the last chapter, Turuhalmë is of rather dubious canonicity and the actual activities it involves are left unspoken. It means 'Log drawing' in Quenya, though, so I decided to collect some other aspects of it into a single tradition. The crossing of the Helcaraxe is canon, though the great pyre is not. In canon, the sun rose for the first time when they came to Angband, the fortress of Morgoth.
> 
> 'Muinthel' is basically 'dear sister'.
> 
> The song is from canon, and is a version of the hymn to Elbereth from the main book, though the Sindarin translation comes from some wonderful folks on lotrplaza.


	20. And the Passing of Years

The first flames of the new year leaped and danced, as the Elves of Rivendell laughed and sang and made music to greet the beginning of a new year, and yet nothing changed. It felt like nothing ever changed in Rivendell. The sun chased the moon across the sky, and the days turned into months, and the months flowed by, a river of years unending.

The Halls felt a little emptier this year, for many of Elrond's people had travelled East with Celebrían and Arwen on another of their visits to the Golden Wood, which was prospering and growing mighty under the leadership of Celeborn and Galadriel.

Harry had not yet found it within him to leave the peace and harmony of Rivendell, especially not on a road which would lead him over the pass of Caradhras, so close to the Gates of Moria. He knew, though, he could not continue to remain in Rivendell forever, even despite Elrond's kindness.

A shadow fell across the room as a man entered through the doors, even though he was short of stature, it was enough to darken the room while the sun was still so low in the sky. At his side was hung a sword, which was a rare thing indeed in the Halls of Elrond. Never had any evil come there that would require such armament, for the power that dwelt within the Valley was too great for any foe. Only upon the practice field did they feel the need to bring out their weapons, and when they did Harry could easily see why the defenses of Rivendell had never fallen, even though the Witch King of Angmar himself had laid them to siege.

o-o

Twin jets of silver danced across the clearing not far from Elrond's home. Sword clashed upon sword, and the noise of their meeting rang across the summer grass.

"Keep your blade up! Up!" commanded Glorfindel for the tenth time that morning. "You cannot hope to defend yourself when it has so far to travel before it can be of use to you."

Glorfindel's silver blade snapped out in a blur, and before his opponent could breath, much less move the blade that was held low in front of him, he felt the prick of a sword-top at his neck.

"You are quick, when you wish to be," Glorfindel said, as he lowered his blade and stepped back, "but true mastery comes not from great haste, or prodigious strength."

"What, then?" asked the other Elf, who was named Argon. He was young in years, and had the familiar look of Elrond's people. He was young, by the standards of his people, and Harry could easily see how much his impetuousness was costing him against the much more skilled Glorfindel.

"You must feel the rhythm of battle in your bones, you must hear its music in your mind," said Glorfindel, and he raised his sword again into a ready stance. "Every motion is a step in the dance, to a tune composed by the warring of two themes. Your aim is to throw your opponent's motions into discord, to lead them astray and into confusion. You are named for one of the greatest warriors of old, yet you suffer from his same weakness. You are blind to your enemy."

"Would that you were a little slower," said Argon, though the smile on his face belied the harshness of his words. "But for that, I would have you bested."

Harry chuckled and shook his head, for it was clear that it would take many years indeed before Glorfindel's lessons would truly sink in. He was not sure the younger Elf even understood what Glorfindel meant.

"Do you think you could do better?" said a familiar voice, laced with poorly concealed mirth. Harry turned to see Arwen approaching, and beside her was Daewen, dressed in the same garb Harry remembered from their first meeting, years ago. Where most Elvish armour was brightly coloured and highly decorated, Daewen's was a mixture of earthy browns and grays to better allow her better concealment when she was out scouting the forests and hinterlands.

"I think you and I both know that I could not," said Harry honestly. "Even the youngest among you has had more years of training than I have lived."

"All of us started where you now stand," said Glorfindel, whom Harry hadn't realised was listening. "I remember my first day at training, and I was much older than you now. When days grow dark, it is well if you can call upon the fire of true steel, even if you hope that you will never have to wield it." Then he caught Daewen's eye for a moment before turning back to his own charge. "Now, let us go again. Blade up."

When Harry turned his attention back to Daewen, he was almost struck by a length of wood, perhaps four feet long and with a heavy weight at the end. His reactions did not desert him, though, and he caught it, the weathered wood slapped into the palm of his hand. He smiled wanly. "So I do not get a choice, then?"

"I think my father would say that you always have a choice," said Arwen, her smile unfaded.

Harry merely laughed and shook his head, before walking into some open space. He tried to remember some of the brief lessons that he'd picked up from Thorir, or from Wambald before him, and stood side on to Daewen, with the elegant Elvish training cane held low in front of him in one hand.

"Ready?" Daewen asked him after a moment, her eyes bright. He could easily see that she was enjoying herself.

"I suppose I— Ow!" he cried, as she had struck out with almost blinding speed and rapped him neatly on the knuckles with her own training cane."

"I thought you said you were ready?"

"So that's how it's going to go, is it?" Harry said after grumbling good naturedly for a few seconds. He raised his cane higher and readied himself again. "Lets go."

It was almost laughable, really, that Harry could ever hope to come close to matching any Elf in skill at arms. Such was their poise and control, that they needed scarce little training to reach a level of mastery far beyond most Men. Daewen was no high Lord or Lady, and she was not even near to the age and experience of Glorfindel or Elrond, but she had been training in arms for centuries, while Harry's experience with swords was limited to not much more than those few brief seconds when he'd used the Sword of Gryffindor to fend off Slytherin's monster. When he fought Daewen, it was as if he was nothing more than the child he'd been on that day in Slytherin's Chamber.

An hour later he was disarmed again, and by that time he had lost count of how many times he had lost his weapon. It felt as though every muscle of his body was aching, and every square inch of him was bruised. In his darkest times he'd sometimes wondered if he was simply incapable of giving up when confronted with hardship, or if it was merely a stubbornness that he had not yet exhausted.

Harry stooped to pick up his lost weapon yet again, and stood at guard.

o-o

The man approached Harry. He was squat and broad of shoulder, and his dirty blond hair, encrusted with mud and other nameless things, fell in a tangled mess below his shoulders. He had a thick beard that did not look like it had seen a razor for many moons. He had been followed by two Elves, who acted as servants in the House of Elrond. They fussed about him, and tried to steer him in the direction of comfort and rest in one of Elrond's guest rooms, but he would not be turned.

His passage was watched by all of the Elves in the Hall of Fire, and Harry could feel Elrond's sharp eyes watching the man from the high table. Though the man was unlovely to look upon it was clear that he had not come to the Hidden Valley seeking confrontation, for such a Man would not have been able to find the secret ways. Such was the power that Elrond wielded over his land.

Despite that knowledge, Harry found himself fingering his most recent attempt at wand craft, which he had taken to carrying with him in a pocket concealed within the folds of his Elvish garb.

o-o

"Have you tried, then, to make a wand such as you describe?" asked Laerornon on a crisp autumn morning, as the trees of the valley blazed in all the colours of the sun.

"I have, and it did not go well," Harry said, as he thought back to his earliest attempts, years ago. "I told you that they needed some core, that would gift the wand with purpose and power. I have found nothing in Middle-earth which suffices for that purpose. In my desperation I tried my own blood, but the wand it created felt foul and wrong in my hands."

"I know nothing of the craft of which you speak, but even I can see that surely no good could have come through such a marriage," said Laerornon, his eyes troubled.

"I know that now," Harry admitted readily. "And in truth I think I knew it then too. But when I was in the depths of my despair and homesickness, any chance, no matter how slim or foul seeming, seemed fairer than the alternative."

"What manner of thing would you need then, for the core of which you speak?"

"My old wand had a core made from the feather of a…" he trailed off for a moment. "In the language of my home it was called a _Phoenix_ , and it was a kind of bird. Every time it died it would be reborn again in fire, it had a song that could raise the spirit from even the uttermost depths of despair."

"It sounds to be a wondrous creature," said Laerornon, but Harry understood the unspoken implication that it was not a creature that was known to the Elves. "The Eagles of Manwë Súlimo reside in the high crags of the Misty Mountains, but they have none of the powers you describe."

"Others were made from the tail hair of a… it is a kind of horse, purest white of colouring, and capable of bringing peace to all who witness it. It had a single great central horn upon its head."

"Such a creature is not so alien, but I fear that neither the Elf-horses that you find here would suffice for your needs, but perhaps one of the fabled Naharchín would have been enough," said Laerornon.

"Naharchín?" asked Harry. "The children of… Nahar? I do not know that word."

"That is not a surprise, for even I do now know the meaning of that name for it comes from a tongue far older than I. Perhaps Lord Elrond knows, but I doubt any others do. Nahar was the great horse of Oromë, the Huntsman of the Valar. His children are said to be able to outpace the wind."

That was something that Harry had not known. Perhaps such a creature would be able to supply him with a wand core that was sufficient for his purposes. Even if it was poorly fitted to him, it would be better than what he was capable of with his staff.

"Then there were wands with a heartstring for a dragon as their core."

"Dragons are not to be sought out lightly," said Laerornon seriously. "I do not know of any tale of their kin that does not end in tragedy and loss."

Harry knew he was telling the truth. "I do not take it lightly, but what else can I do? I am not of this place, even though I have now been here near as long as I was in my own world. It is like an itch I cannot scratch."

After a short pause, filled with all the beautiful sounds of Rivendell in the spring, Laerornon spoke again, "So you believe that were you to find this heartstring, that by marrying it with a short length of wood that you will be able to access your old power?"

"Well, if I am honest with you, no," Harry admitted. "I do not doubt that a wand is much more complicated than a simple length of wood with a piece of hair in it. Everything I do is a learning experience, though and I hope that trying the simple solution might lead me further along the right path."

"Have you thought of perhaps trying your hand at the woodworking portion of your task _before_ it becomes necessary? Surely if you have to hunt down a dragon for the core, you would not wish to waste it, when it comes to the final act of creation," said Laerornon.

Harry knew he had a very good point. Ollivander had surely spent years learning his craft, and he'd been the beneficiary of more than a thousand years of knowledge. Harry did not have a thousand years to perfect the craft, and given the scarcity of wand components it would not have the same opportunity to hone his skills.

"Very well," he said after only a short moment's thought. "Teach me."

o-o

"They say that you are Harry the Wanderer, you are the one known to my people as Eardstapa?" said the man, and his words were thickly accented in the tones of the language of the Éothéod.

"I am," said Harry, and he motioned for the two Elves to cease in their attempts to lead the man away. It was clear that there was some news that he felt the need to bear. "You are of the Éothéod, the people of Frumgar and Audofleda?"

"I am of the Éothéod, but no longer are we led by Frumgar," said the man, his eyes turned down respectfully. "He died last spring, at the teeth and fires of a long-worm out of the Misty Mountains. His son, Fram now leads our people."

Harry blinked, and for a moment his heart stopped in his breast. "A dragon?"

o-o

"You look upon the Host of Morgoth in its hour of triumph," said Elrond as he walked up behind Harry, who was looking at one of the many frescoes that adorned the walls and ceilings of Elrond's Hall.

They were many, and each one was a masterpiece of Elven skill, and Harry often found himself looking upon them during his quiet days among Elrond's people. The one before him showed a city aflame, with a great host of Dragons and Balrogs, a horde of Orcs and other ugly things ran in ugly rivulets around their smoking feet. A tide of blood and fire, descending upon a city so white that it shone as bright as the moon amid the darkest of skies.

"The Fall of Gondolin," said Elrond as he took his place at Harry's side and looked up at the painting. "The city of my fathers, and the greatest city of my people."

"Can you remember it?"

Elrond shook his head. "I was not begat until after the Fall, though I think every Noldo would say that they can remember the light of Gondolin, for it is something that is remembered in the soul, not the body. But alas, it is a memory that can never be reclaimed. I will never know the bustle of the Great Market, or the view of the Encircling Mountains from atop the Tower of the King, nor the sight of Glingal and Belthil. Such is the nature of the world, now."

A memory, long forgotten, surfaced in Harry's mind. "To Cuiviénen under the stars there is no returning," he said, more to himself than to Elrond.

"Ah, you have heard that saying," said Elrond. "Perhaps it seems strange to you, but if you could but see the world as an Elf sees it, I think you might understand."

Harry could help but chuckle. "So I have been told before," he admitted, "but I am still not sure I believe it. I have seen what once was Cuivíenen beneath the stars, and I have heard the songs of your Eastern kin echo beneath those ancient boughs. Perhaps it is not the same place it was when the world was young, but that does not diminish what it is _now_.

"With every passing season I see old beauty fade, and new beauty grow. Summer ends, and with it go the flowers and the bright summer afternoons and the warm nights. But it gives us one final gift before it leaves completely, and that is Autumn, when all the world takes up in every hue of red, and yellow and orange. Then winter comes, and the featherlight touch of snow caresses the land, and the stars and moon shine bright in the sky during long nights listening to tales in the Hall of Fire.

"Listen to me talk," said Harry, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "I think I have spent too long listening to your minstrels, Lord Elrond. This place grows on you, like moss upon a stone."

"Do not apologise for speaking what is in your heart," said Elrond. "For it warms mine to hear you speak on my home with such fondness. Your words remind me of my brother, who long ago chose a path which forever sundered our fates, and yet he saw the world as you do. Sometimes I see it too, when I walk in my gardens on a bright spring morn."

There was a long comfortable pause between the two, and Harry found himself examining the small bright figures of the few Elven heroes who stood against Morgoth's horde. Among them was Glorfindel, easy to recognise in his green mantle, threaded with gold flowers. Around him were other figures, surely of Elven legend, though Harry knew not their names.

"My grandfather," said Elrond obviously seeing where Harry's attention was directed. He pointed to one of the figures, who stood taller than any of those who stood at his side, his golden hair shone like the hidden sun. "Tuor Ulmondil, standing beside the Lords of Gondolin in its final days."

"It is a beautiful painting. Forgive me if I say that you do not much take after him," said Harry.

Elrond smiled, and his gray eyes alight with good humour. "Much to my detriment, or so Celebrían sometimes says."

"Ulmondil…" said Harry after short pause, once again more to himself than to Elrond. "Ulmo is one of the Valar, is he not? I thought that they were detached from the trials of Middle-earth."

"It was not always so, of course," said Elrond. "During the Years of the Trees they roamed all of the far leagues of the world, Middle-earth included. After my kin scorned them in our blind pride, they stayed distanced from our wars here, but that does not mean they did not try to give aid where they could."

"Ulmo was always the closest of the Valar to Middle-earth, for his domain is within the seas and oceans of the world, and in the elder days his reach extended even to lake and river and stream. Even now, some whisper of his influence yet remains within the veins of the world. He has always sought to aid us, Elves and Men both, against the Darkness. In the days of Gondolin his influence was easy to see. Indeed, were it not for him Gondolin would never have been. Tuor was chosen by him as the final protector of the city, and even though he eventually failed, there is no doubt that all of Middle-earth would have been worse off if not for his esteem."

During his time in Rivendell Harry had done what he could to understand the myths and legends of the Elves. Something in him found it hard to accept that powers like the Valar and Morgoth had once trod upon Middle-earth. It was like discovering that the Norse gods were more than mere tales.

And yet he himself had spoken to Elves who had met the Valar. How could he disbelieve Glorfindel's descriptions of the Pastures of Yavanna, or the Halls of Mandos, or Ilmarin atop Taniquetil when the very words he spoke seemed to come to life and paint an image of such timeless beauty that no mere painting could have done them justice.

He noticed another figure, tall and lordly, yet surrounded by shadow, who stood opposed to the heroic figures, and behind him came all the foul creatures of Morgoth's host. In his hand was a black blade which cast shadows even where there should be none, as if it was issuing darkness like a flame issues light.

"But I think that is enough of the history lesson for today," said Elrond before Harry could ask who the figure was, and in a moment the wise loremaster was gone, replaced instead by the kindly Master of the House. "Now, come, and tell me what it was like to gaze upon the stars that once shone upon the first awakening of the Eldar."

o-o

"It has scoured our lands, robbed and burned the holds of those of our people who dwelt there. Our people have named it Scatha, and they say it is of such monstrous size that it can swallow man and horse whole. They say that its fiery breath can melt stone, and that its scales can turn aside any blade." As the man spoke, the nearby Elves quieted for they had all heard tale of the dragons of the first age, the Elves knew well the devastation that they could wreak.

"What is your name?" Harry asked. "Have you seen this dragon with your own eyes?"

"Few have, and I am not among them," said the man, and Harry could hear the relief that he felt as that mercy. "I am Helm, and I was sent by the Lady Audofleda to seek out any who would aid our people."

"You speak well," said Harry, for he could well remember the barrier of words that had existed between him and the people of the Anduin Vale. "What aid does Audofleda hope will come?"

"She told me not," said Helm honestly. "I do not think that she knew herself, but what we have need of most, is hope. We have precious little of it in these dark days. There were tales among our people of the fay who lived in the forests and Valleys, though even I thought it but a fool's hope."

"I fear you will find little appetite here for battle with a Worm of Morgoth," said Elrond, who had joined them without Harry's notice. "It has been scarce few years since last we marched to War, and the memory of those who were lost there is still fresh."

"What of the Woodland Realm?" Harry asked Elrond. "They did not aid in the war against Angmar, and their woods are not so far from the lands menaced by this Scatha. Would they muster a force to meet the creature?"

"I fear not," said Elrond. "Long has a darkness hung over Mirkwood, and even the Wise cannot see what it is that has brought it about. Perhaps another of the Nazgûl of Sauron there makes his lair as the Witch-King did in Angmar for long years. It has made them distrusting of strangers, even of those who are their kin. I do not think that any messengers sent into the Wood will return hence."

Harry did not ask about the realm of Galadriel and Celeborn for he knew that no aid would be able to come from there either. It was they who now kept watch over the darkness that prowled the Halls of the Dwarves, and they would not leave that post unguarded even for this.

o-o

"Would you not like to join us?" Celebrían asked Harry a few days before her group departed Rivendell for Lórinand. Among the travellers were Arwen and her two brothers, as well as more than a dozen Elves of Elrond's household.

"Perhaps one day," said Harry as he shook his head. "But not now. Your path runs over Caradhras by the Dimrill stair, I do not think it would be wise for me to travel there again, so soon after my last journey into the darkness beneath the mountain. I travelled only as far as the Redhorn Gate with your sons just last spring, and even there I could feel the attention of the Balrog within. I do not think it would be safe for me to join you on that road. Durin's Bane has not yet seen fit to leave the safety of his stolen realm, but I fear that my presence may be enough to overcome that reticence."

"Even without my presence, I am not sure it is wise to take that road."

"My husband would surely agree with you, and it is his caution that kept us from making the journey last year," said Celebrían. "But naneth says that she believes it is the safest route, even with the evil that dwells beneath the mountain. The Gap of Calenardhon is not safe either, for the Dunlendings that have settled there are a savage and superstitious folk. Should we go that way, and our passing become known, they may choose to attack us."

All that, Harry knew, for he had had the same discussion with Arwen not three days ago. "It still sits ill with me," he admitted. "But I will not question the wisdom of Galadriel in this, for I am told that she sees farther than nearly everyone. I still do not think it would be wise for me to join you, though."

"Perhaps you are right," said Celebrían, and she dipped her head gracefully. "Perhaps you will be able to join us, in time. I do not doubt that the Lord and Lady of Lórien would welcome you, and it would surely bring happiness to Arwen, she has grown fond of your presence, as have we all, during your time here."

"Imladris will seem strange in your absence," Harry said, a grateful smile upon his lips. "It does my heart good to know that I may be missed as much as I shall miss you. Lord Elrond will surely be impossible to cheer with you gone, my Lady."

She laughed, and it was as warm as the morning sun, on a clear summer's day. "I do not doubt that he will wish to brood, when he does not think that there are any eyes upon him. You must promise me that you will do what you can to bring him good cheer."

"I will do what I can," said Harry, then he shook his head, amused at the thought. "Though I am not sure I am the one you should be asking, if it is good cheer that you seek. I may not have the keen ears of an Elf, but I know that it has been said of me that I can brood as well any any Man."

"Lindir," said Celebrían with a weary shake of her head, then she laughed again, and Harry could not help but join her in her mirth.

"Well, if that is true," she said, after they had quieted. "Then perhaps you and my husband may find companionship in your brooding, and be the happier for it."

"Perhaps we shall."

o-o

"You would insist on making this journey alone?" Elrond asked, as Harry and he stood upon the shores of the Bruinen ford. The man of the Éothéod, Helm, stood upon the far banks, impatient to return to his people, even though the morning was so cold that the air itself seemed to freeze into a million perfect crystals.

"I would," said Harry. "This is something I must do for myself. You and your kin have done more for me than I can ever repay, but I think it is time I looked again for the path I once thought lost."

"I would not command it, but if you would allow it, I know that there are a few from my household who would wish to accompany you upon your journey," said Elrond. "It makes me glad that Arwen is yet abroad in Lothlórien, for I know that if she were here, she would not allow you to go once again into the maw of darkness alone. She and Daewen both would go with you, even if you asked them to stay."

"Then I am glad that they are not here," said Harry, his tone firm, even if he did not feel that same surety of purpose. "I know that this is something I must do, and I would not endanger anyone else by drawing them in my wake."

"Yet you would refuse even Glorfindel, should he offer his services," said Elrond, and his eyes were shrewd as they looked over Harry, who for a moment felt like a boy again.

"I do not doubt that a great Lord, such as Glorfindel, would be able to see me safely to my destination. More than that I do no doubt that he could walk into the very lair of this Scatha and contest with it there. If he did that, though, then it would be his victory, not mine, and it would avail me not."

Elrond nodded, seemingly satisfied by Harry's answer. "Then I will give my blessing to your journey."

Harry was surprised by the easy acceptance, and it must have showed upon his face, for Elrond continued, "Your reasons are not the reasons you would have given twenty years ago, when first you stepped foot in Imladris. You have found the healing you needed here, and so, if you wish to go, then it is time for you to go. Your path leads ever on, though I hope that it will return you here, from time to time."

Twenty years, when said like that, it felt like he had wasted half a lifetime amid the calm and good cheer of Imladris and its occupants. Half a lifetime was near enough right, for he had only seen twenty six years in all his life, before entering the Valley.

Twenty years, and yet he felt almost unchanged from the day he'd first stepped into the Valley. If anything, the wholesome air of Imladris had treated him more kindly than all the years before them. He felt stronger now, in body and in mind than he ever had before. At his side was a sword of Elvish make, in his hand the staff of Saruman. Around his shoulders was a cloak of Elvish raiment, as thin and soft as silk, and yet warmer than wool on a cold winter's day.

Age did not pursue him, as it seemed to pursue most other Men. His days extended like those who lived in Númenor even in the early days of its founding. His eyes were a little darker, his hair a little lighter, but nothing else changed much.

Elrond had told him about his brother, Elros Tar Minyatur, who had been the first King of Númenor lost. He had been the great grand-sire of Aranarth, now the Chieftain of the Dunedáin, who came often to Imladris to hear the counsel of the Wise who dwelt there. In those early days of Númenor the Men who lived there saw their span of extend to more than five times that of lesser Men, and all of the long years of their lives were lived in good health, until at last they chose to accept mortality and passed on beyond the wall of night.

Harry had remembered then, the story of the youngest Brother, and wondered at the similarities.

"Twenty years," he said almost mournfully. "When you take them all together like that, it seems like such a heavy price to pay, and yet when you pay such a toll in parts, in days and in hours, it seems like so much less."

Elrond did not say anything more, but instead he embraced Harry warmly. It was not until he pulled away again that he spoke. "For as long as my people yet linger in Middle-earth, there will be warmth to be found by my hearth, Harry Potter."

"Thank you, Lord Elrond. For everything you have done for me, perhaps one day I will be able to return your aid in kind, though I hope it will never be necessary." Harry paused, then he reached to his waist, where the blade that had once been Daewen's now hung, renewed at last after long practice at Camaenor's forges. "Would you do me one last favour, and give this to Daewen when she returns from Lothlórien."

"I do not think she will thank you to receive this, when she learns the journey you have embarked upon," said Elrond. "It is yours now, more than it ever saw hers, for it was not her hand that forged it."

"I am not returning it to her," said Harry with a smile. "Instead, I am gifting this to her anew, as thanks for everything she has done for me. I do not know if I will return, or if I shall even survive, but I want to be sure that she knows of my gratitude. Now, I go! Farewell, Lord Elrond."

"Fair winds, Harry Potter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the background stuff has been explained in the chapter this time around. Due to Harry's long time in Rivendell, there will be no more written Sindarin, except when it is dropped into a conversation that is primarily being spoken in a different language. This largely matches the translation convention of Tolkien's work, where individual Sindarin words are only retained in the 'translation' if the use of Sindarin is in some way noteworthy. For example, Fair winds would be the Sindarin expression 'suil vain', but as the rest of the conversation was conducted in Sindarin it was not translated.
> 
> The dark figure in the mural is Meaglin who is remembered as the one who betrayed Gondolin to Morgoth.
> 
> The year is now the winter of 2001/2002 in the Third Age.


	21. A Shadow Again Rode Abroad

That winter had not been a snowy one. Instead it had been a season of cold, misty mornings, overcast days and damp, dreary evenings. It was well for them too, for though the days were short and unlovely, they were kind to travellers. Harry and his companion made good time on their road towards the mountains.

"Snow has fallen heavy atop the Mountains of Mist," said Helm, three days after their departure from Rivendell. "The High Pass was too treacherous for any Man when I crossed them Westwards."

"That much is clear," said Harry, for indeed it was. They were camped in the shadow of the mountains and for the first time since they had begun their journey the fog and winter damp had lifted just enough to allow them a glimpse of the path that Harry had hoped would be open to them. The mountains were piled heavy with snow, which glittered only occasionally as errant sunbeams crept between the heavy clouds which skimmed their peaks. "The Gladden Pass is the next pass south of here, but it is always impassable in Winter, for it runs too high, and too narrow."

Helm agreed and nodded his head. "When I attempted the Pass west, the Ford at Goldwater has been swept up in stormwater, and the melting of the recent high snows can only have made it worse. There will be no pass that way until the waters ebb in spring."

That meant that their next best option was the one that Harry was most loath to take. He grimaced. "Then it is the Redhorn Pass."

"That is the route I took," said Helm. "Only the heaviest of snows can close that road, and this winter has been a mild one."

"As I feared" Harry sighed, for he had little desire to return to the triple peaks that sat atop the ruins of Moria. There was little choice though, for the northern passes would be closed until winter released its grip upon the Misty Mountains, and the journey south to the Gap of Calenardhon was a long one indeed. It had been near twenty years since Harry had walked in sight of the peaks of Khazad-dûm. Surely the creature that made its lair in the darkness below would have slipped in its vigilance by now. "Very well, but when we come to the Redhorn Gate, we must make all haste over the Pass. I have no desire to be caught upon the high way when night draws in on us."

"The tales of your travels there have reached us, even in Framsburg and the lands that my people settle there," said Helm. "You will have no argument from me."

"Good," said Harry, then he glanced at Helm. "Where did the tales come from, if I might ask? The Elves of Imladris seldom travel East. Even now, those brave few who are making the pilgrimage to Cuiviénen do not travel so far North as to enter the lands of your people. The Dunédain have heard the story, too, but they also do not travel far beyond the borders of their fallen realm."

"I was but a child at the time," said Helm, "and I remember not his name, but it was a Dwarf who bore your story with him. A companion of yours, once, I think? He was journeying back to the holds of his people in the Grey Mountains."

"Frór," said Harry, and he was glad to hear news of his old friend. He had departed Lothlórien before that first Winter had released Imladris from its frosty clutch, and Harry had not heard of him since. It was good indeed to know that he had reached the lands of the Éothéod, for the journey to his homeland was not a long one from there.

"Giese!" said Helm, momentarily falling back into his own tongue. "That was his name, so his tale was true?"

"I do not know what tale it was he told you," Harry admitted, "but if he was the same Frór that I knew, he was not much given to embellish his tales."

"There was a gap in his tale, though," said Helm after a short while. "He never said how it was that you escaped. He said that you stood alone against the creature, the deofol of fire. That he was sure that you would be forever lost, as were your other companions, and yet you were not."

Harry shook his head. "Do not mistake my escape from that place for strength, or skill at arms. I knew nothing of what I was fighting there, and that I yet live is much more thanks to luck than any ability of mine.

"Now, come, we have many leagues to cover in our journey, if the High Pass is closed to us."

o-o

The three peaks of Khazad-dûm sat heavy on the horizon. Their stone was grey, and so alike to the clouds that concealed their peaks that they were like great towers, holding aloft the sky itself.

Zirakzigil, Barazinbar and Bundushathûr, they were called by the Dwarves, and it was by those names that Harry thought of them still. Even from a great distance, when they were barely visible in the morning mist, Harry fancied that he could feel the malevolent mind that dwelled beneath them.

As they approached, Harry felt eyes on him, and his tightened his grip on his staff, while his other hand strayed a little closer to the sword at his hip. He closed his eyes for a moment, and listened to all that was about him; wind in the heather, foraging birds in the scrub, insects on the wing. He smiled.

"You shall have to do better than that, Elladan, my friend," Harry called out.

A moment later the laughing form of Elladan rose from a bush not twenty feet from where Harry and Helm were stood. "Your senses are near as sharp as an Elf's, now" he said cheerfully, and he quickly leaped from his hiding place."

Then the hair upon the nape of Harry's neck prickled, and he felt the the cold metal of a blade laid upon it. "Yet there is still more for you to learn," said Elrohir from his position behind Harry, who then joined the two brothers in their laughter.

"Isn't there always?" Harry asked Elrohir after allowing a few seconds to simply enjoy their reunion. Without warning, he spun on the spot, and his staff swung out with whiplash speed at Elrohir's feet. The Elf was forced to jump back gracefully to avoid being felled, his merry laughter only increased.

Helm looked on, confusion written in every feature, and his own sword half drawn from its rough-and-ready scabbard. Harry spread his arms to embrace the two Elves in an enthusiastic hug.

"How goes the watch?" Harry asked, after he had sobered.

"Still, there has been no sign. Not so much as a single wisp of smoke has been seen to rise from the mountain," said Elladan. "Even Lady Galadriel has not been able to feel the mind of the creature that dwells within, though she is sure that it slumbers there still."

"It is well for us that it shows no desire to venture forth," said Elrohir, and Harry had to agree.

"Perhaps the Doors of Durin keep it contained," Harry suggested. "There was power in those doors, and I am not sure even that fell being could easily break them."

"We can but hope," said Elrohir. It was then that he and his brother seemed to notice Helm at last. "But that is for those more Wise than we. Where do you and your companion travel, Harry?"

Harry waved Helm over, and introduced him to the two sons of Elrond. "This is Helm of the Éothéod. He came to Imladris seeking aid for his people, and I decided that it was time that I left the valley, lest I remain there until I grow old and grey. Helm, these are Elladan and Elrohir, they are the sons of Elrond who is Lord of Imladris."

"Harry has spoken often of your people," said Elladan, as he clasped Helm's arm in greeting. "I hope that the aid your people need is not too dire."

"It is dire," said Helm, breaking his silence for the first time since the two brothers had appeared. Like many Men unfamiliar with the ways of the Elves, he was clearly uneasy around them, much as Harry had been when first he had met them. "A dragon menaces our lands in the north; many Men and horses have died to its flame and claw."

The two brothers looked to Harry, doubt dancing in their eyes. Elladan spoke, "That is no mean quest, the beasts of Morgoth are no simple beasts to be put down."

"I know that well," said Harry. "But even the greatest of those beasts may die if caught in a landslide."

The brothers understood immediately. "Then you mean to use your magic to bring the mountain down upon it?" asked Elladan.

"Or perhaps you will weaken the stone with one of your concoctions, and leave the beast to see to its own doom?" said Elrohir.

"That was my hope."

"That may just work," said Elladan thoughtfully, "but you must be sure that your first strike is a fatal one, for the wyrms of Morgoth are cunning, and your foe will not be fooled a second time."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "Your father impressed much the same sentiment upon me, even then, he was loath to allow me to travel to this battle alone."

"It will not go well for him, even if you should be successful," said Elrohir a little playfully. "I cannot believe that naneth will be pleased with his decision to allow you to go into such danger without an escort."

"If that is your path, then you would do well to avoid Lothlórien when you come to the Celebrant," Elladan suggested. "Even if naneth can be persuaded of the need of your journey, nothing would sway Arwen from her wroth."

"Now isn't that a truly fearful thought!" Harry chuckled at the thought of Arwen, whom they said recalled the legendary beauty of Lúthien herself, in the throes of anger. It was a hard thing to imagine, for he did not think he could ever recall her taken up in anger. She truly was her father's daughter in that respect. Whatever 'wroth' she might visit upon him, he was sure that it would be well couched in grace and fairly spoken words.

Perhaps that made it all the worse.

"The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood have extended many an invite to me, during my time in Imladris," Harry said eventually. "Yet my journey is an urgent one, I fear. Should you see them before I, then let them know that I will journey there when my business in the north is complete."

Elladan's laughter brightened the winter gloom. "It is said among the Dúnedain that we Elves oft talk in circles, it seems you have learned that skill well during your time in Imladris."

"We two will not be returning to Lothlórien once our turn at the watch is complete," said Elrohir more seriously, though Harry could see his well hidden amusement. "There is another watch laid at the southern end of the Nen Cenedril, if you were to tell them of your plans, I am sure they would bear them back to the Golden Wood."

"Then I shall do that," said Harry with a nod of understanding. He looked to Helm and spoke again, "It is time, I think, that we continue on, there are a few hours yet until night falls, and I would much like to be within sight of the Redhorn Gate before we make our camp."

"Fair winds, Harry," said Elladan, and the two brothers took it in turns to clasp Harry's arm in farewell. "We will look for your return come spring."

o-o

"We must make haste," Harry urged Helm two days later as they made the gruelling climb up the western slopes of the Pass.

Helm was feeling the ascent far more clearly than Harry, as was clear from the Man's slow pace and heavy breathing. Harry remembered the first time he had crossed the mountains, and how it had been he who had seemed weak and ungraceful next to Daewen, how times had changed.

"How can you sustain this?" asked Helm between drawing in huge lungfuls of the cold mountain air. He reached a patch of the path that was not quite so steep, and stopped gratefully, placing his hands on his knees and bending near double in an effort to catch his wind.

Harry did not answer, for in truth he did not know. Perhaps it was some part of the magic that had sustained him in Angmar that was now aiding his stamina, or maybe it was the long time spent among the Elves in Imladris. It was not important at that moment, instead, he shrugged off his travelling pack and started to look through the equipment he'd brought with him.

Elvish food and waybread, enough to feed a Man for more than a year. Healing poultices made by Elrond, the half-finished parts of his most recent attempt at wandcraft, and other things less significant. He pulled out his small potion-kit, and set the tiny cauldron down upon the mountainside.

He could not carry an endless supply of ingredients with him on his journey, and so what he did have had to be used sparingly, but he felt that in this situation something was called-for. If he could not find a way to invigorate Helm, and to pick up their pace, they would have to overnight on the mountainside, altogether too close too close to the city that lay beneath the mountain. Even as the climbed the lower slopes, Harry fancied he could feel the slumbering evil that dwelt below the mountain. It was small comfort that it did not seem to have noticed Harry's own presence so close to its domain.

With a practiced hand, Harry mixed up the ingredients for a potion very much like the one he'd concocted for himself during his first mountain crossing. It took not half an hour for the potion to be completed and administered to the still exhausted Helm, but it was half an hour that they could ill afford. Already, Harry could feel the winter sun weakening as it began to fall away again, towards the horizon.

"I feel like I have been granted the strength of ten men!" cried Helm as the potion swapt newfound vigor to his every muscle. "So this is the power of which Audofleda spoke."

"That, and a few other things," said Harry. His time in Imladris had been peaceful, yes, but just as he had been learning how to wield a sword, so too had he been bettering his own skills. Elrond had proved a font of knowledge in the healing arts, and had given Harry a list of near every plant and animal in Middle-earth known to have some medicinal property. It was strange, then, that Elrond had been sorely taxed by the act of potioncraft. His concoctions worked, and his precision and knowledge meant they worked very well indeed, but the action seemed to sap his strength much more than Harry had ever thought possible.

Indeed, Harry had never felt _any_ kind of fatigue after creating a potion. That Elrond did spoke of something that neither Man nor Elf fully understood.

"Such concoctions would be a great boon, if you could but teach them to our people," said Helm.

"I have tried to teach others my ways," said Harry. As he spoke he finished packing his equipment away again, and started again to walk with as much haste as he could manage up the slope, slicked as it was by mud and water. "Very few have shown any ability with it, and then only among the eldest and wisest of the Elves. I do not know why I would be the only Man with the skill to perform the craft, but it seems to be so. All other Men seem overly prone to blowing up my cauldrons."

"That is unfortunate," said Helm, now easily able to keep pace with Harry in their climb.

Their ascent continued as the sunset and all the mountains were painted blood red by the dying sun, and still they did not reach the highest point of the Pass. Soon, darkness fell, and the way became more treacherous still.

"We must make camp, Harry," said Helm, only a shadow of his outline visible in the darkness as they walked carefully along a narrow portion of the pass, flanked on one side by the sheer mountainside, and on the other by a drop into unknown darkness. They had not brought lamps with them, for they were bulky and rarely useful on such a journey, and there had been no trees growing upon the mountain side since the morning. "We cannot make good time in this darkness, for even the moon and stars are hidden from view and cannot light our way. If we rest now, and leave before dawn come morning we will surely be off the mountain come nightfall tomorrow."

Harry released a frustrated sigh. "You are right. Though I fear what might become of us if the darkness beneath awakes before the darkness above lifts, there is little chance of us avoiding injury if we try to continue like this. The way has become too narrow and perilous. As soon as we find a safe place we will make a hasty camp. We must be ready to leave at a moment's notice, though."

They travelled on a short way, their progress painfully slow in the darkness that seemed to get deeper with every passing minute. Eventually, the cliff retreated just enough, with a narrow overhang above to offer them a little shielding from any weather than may descend upon them during the night.

Harry set about trying to produce a fire while Helm laid out their bedrolls and helped himself to a little of the Elvish lembas bread that had been given to them on their departure from Imladris. A fire was no easy task. After the long damp winter, there was very little dry wood suitable for the task, and even if there was, it was down on the lower reaches of the mountainside. Around their campsite there was nothing but cold stone and water.

That his earlier potioncraft had not awoken Durin's Bane in its stolen Halls, Harry regarded as a great boon, for only magic would be able to create a sustainable fire upon that dreary mountainside.

There was a potion that he'd experimented with during his years in Imladris, mostly due to the times he'd met some of the surviving Dunédain who now patrolled the lands of their fallen kingdoms. They were skilled woodsmen and well-travelled, but even they could not light a fire on the wettest and wildest winter nights, and those nights were when a fire was most keenly needed.

So Harry had, after much trial and error, produced a potion to aid them when the need was dire. An everburning potion that no wind or rain could extinguish. All it needed was a spark to be set to it, and it would roar to life, bringing warmth and light into even the darkest of places.

The fire lasted for 7 hours, and 7 minutes, without fail. Using more of the potion did not extend that time, it merely made the fire larger, and nothing Harry had done to his recipe had been able to improve the lifespan beyond that limit. It was enough, though, to see a man through a cold northern night, and it would see them well on this evening too.

Harry spread a single vial of the potion, ready prepared, over the bare rock, then picked up his staff, and struck it smartly against the stone. A shower of sparks exploded from the end, and an instant later the cold started to withdraw. The two travellers became the source of a rising cloud of steam, as their damp clothes quickly dried in the newfound warmth.

"I will take the first watch," Harry said, as Helm laid out his bedroll. Within minutes he was slumbering, and the sound of his grateful snoring echoed along the valley.

His back to the fire so that he could see just a little into the night beyond, Harry sat a little away from the camp, though just close enough that he could feel some small measure of the warmth the fire granted. His eyes scanned the blackness, but it was not by sight that he was keeping watch. Instead, his senses reached out into the stone beneath him, and ran through the cracks and crevices down into the bones of the earth. His mind's eye watched from a distance as the Balrog continued its slumber, unheeding of Harry's presence so near to its domain.

o-o

Harry was shaken awake, and to the unwelcome sensation of being watched. His eyes snapped open, to be greeted by the face of Helm, a look of puzzlement on his weathered face.

After releasing a grateful breath, Harry shook off the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, and spoke, "For what reason have you awoken me? There still is not enough light for us to travel safely along these roads."

"It was not I that awoke you, but some tremor that ran through the mountain itself. There is a light atop the peak of the Silvertine," said Helm, his voice nothing more than a whisper as he pointed to where the distant mountaintop would have stood had it not been shrouded by darkness. There was a new star in the sky there, red and baleful, which cast a flickering light over the very summit of the mountain. The clouds shied away from the figure, as if burned by the terrible heat that Harry could still remember. "I know not what it is, but my heart tells me that it is an ill omen."

In a moment, Harry knew what it was, and the feeling of being watched washed over him again and this time he felt the foul mind of that which regarded him. "We need to move," said Harry as he jumped to his feet and immediately started packing up his bedroll, making a mess of the action in his haste. "We need to get off the mountain, now."

Much to his credit, Helm asked no questions and did not delay in collecting what few of his belongings he had unpacked during their brief stay.

As he did so, Harry stepped out of the lee of the mountain, into the wind and blown rain. It was not heavy, but the wrong winds drove the otherwise gentle rain at speeds that stung upon his face and hands.

Even across the gulf of darkness that lay between them, Harry could feel those eyes upon him, filled with burning hatred for all things that lived and loved. There was small comfort in the realisation that whatever the creature was doing, it was not immediately making to pursue them.

Harry decided to throw caution to the wind, and with a whisper and another tap of his staff the silvery inlays that wove back and forth along its length grew slowly into brilliant light. The dark shadows that pressed in at the mountain were driven back then. Not far, but enough that their way would lie clear before them, and it would need to, for Harry intended to make his descent faster than even Elves would consider, save in the direst of need.

"Stay close to me," Harry said to Helm before throwing his pack over his shoulders, and setting off along the path at a fast jog, driving the shadows, and wind, and rain before him.

Perhaps some day that descent would become another tale to be told around the fire-pit on some distant winter's day. Harry and Helm both, flew down the mountainside with a haste that even the swiftest of birds would have marvelled at. They slipped and tripped more times than Harry could count, and Helm fell a dozen times or more. Each time he did, Harry stopped to pick him back up. Though he did not yet know him well, and though the thought of Durin's Bane made his blood run like ice, he knew he could never abandon someone who had so sought his aid.

The Balrog did not follow. Instead it watched their passage from its high vantage, and did nothing.

Eventually, they slowed in their descent, when it became clear that no pursuit was coming, and soon after that the clouds broke, and the sun at last touched its light upon the peaks of the mountains of Moria. With that new light, the fire of the Balrog was no longer visible, for the light of the sun, even in winter, was much the greater than its own.

Harry could still feel it though. Lost though it was amid the morning sun that had by some miracle burned through the dark and stormy clouds, Harry could yet feel its eyes upon him from its high vantage. It was not like the pathetic Goblins that lived elsewhere in the Misty Mountains, it held no fear of the Sun, for the Balrog was from a time before the sun first rose into the sky, and it remembered the fear-filled dark that had preceded it.

At last they rounded a bend in the road, and a familiar Valley opened up before them. The Dimrill stair descended, in steps beyond count, down to the Dimrill Dale, where Harry had once camped with his Dwarven companions.

In the valley he could see a small group of figures making their way towards the stairs around the Mirrormere, and for the first moment Harry felt he could breath freely again. He stopped, and dropped onto one of the steps, heedless of the wet, as his Elven raiment did not absorb water like other fabrics. The light that had been issuing from his staff faded slowly to nothing, until it was once again made of metal and stone. Weariness that had until that moment been ignored slowly made itself known.

Helm couldn't speak, so exhausted was he, and so he simply collapsed into a seated position, then fell back against the ground, his chest rising and falling quickly as he tried to catch his breath.

"You did well," said Harry eventually, after he felt he would be able to talk without slurring his words. "There was many a time when I was sure that you would be unable to follow."

No response came from Helm, save the sound of his gasping breaths. It was a few minutes before he was able to gather enough air in his lungs to voice a reply, "How?"

Unsure what Helm was trying to ask, Harry cocked his head to the side and waited patiently for the Man to speak again.

"It was as if I was lent some measure of your strength," said Helm after another few minutes to get his breathing under control again. "Like that concoction from yesterday, yet this time there was no potion. I do not have the strength or stamina to sustain such a run as we just performed."

"Fear can do amazing things," said Harry with a shrug. "I know well enough that Men can do impossible things when their life is threatened. It was not your time today, and so you ensured that death did not find you, even if you do not think you had such strength."

Helm did not look convinced by Harry's words, but they were unable to continue the discussion, for at that moment the Elves who had been climbing the steps with all their accustomed grace called out to the two travellers.

"Ai, come quickly!" The lead elf had long golden hair and was followed by two others who had the dark hair found more commonly among the Elves. He had the accent of one who was not over familiar with speaking Westron. "There is a fell figure upon the mountain, and it has laid its eyes upon you, you must come away with all your haste."

"I know of it," said Harry, and he didn't bother to stand. "It is not pursuing us. It seems content to merely watch as we leave its domain."

"Then it has some fell purpose that we cannot divine," said the Elf. "That is perhaps even more troubling."

With a groan, Harry pushed himself reluctantly to his feet again. "You are right, whatever its purpose, it will not go well for us. We should leave." He turned to where Helm was still sitting. "Can you stand again?"

Helm donned a look of determination, and, after waving off aid from one of the Elves who moved to help him, he staggered to his feet. He swayed a little, but he nodded to Harry.

"Then we shall continue the descent, though I do not think such haste is required this time," said Harry. As he began walking, with the Elves joining them, Harry introduced himself and his companion. "I am Harry, and this is Helm, we are travelling from Imladris to Éothéod lands in the northern reaches of Rhovanion. You are Marchwardens of Lothlórien, are you not?"

"We are," said the leader. He then pointed to himself, and his two companions. "I am Haldir, and these are Tordir and Denweg. We have been tasked with maintaining the watch on the Eastern Gate of Moria."

"And this is the first time that Durin's Bane has been sighted?"

"It is. In the short years that our watch has been maintained, none have seen so much as a shadow of its influence. Only the Lady Galadriel was able to feel its presence when she travelled here."

"It was slumbering," said Harry. "Far beneath the mountain, in the lowest and darkest Delvings of the Dwarves. How long it was sleeping, I do not know, and I hope now that it returns to that slumber and your guard is once again unremarkable."

"The Lord and Lady of Lórinand will wish to hear of this," said the Elf that had been introduced as Tordir. His voice was even more heavily accented than Haldir's.

"If what I have been told of the Lady Galadriel is true, then she will already know," said Harry. "I have been told that she sees farther than anyone, even Lord Elrond."

"You speak the truth," said Haldir, "yet we cannot rely on her farsight alone, or the watch would never have been set here." He turned to his other companion. "Denweg, nanmen ô Caras Galadhon, peta ita sí larnë."

"Lá, Haldir," said Denweg, who then sprang ahead of them with Elvish speed without so much as a farewell.

"Denweg speaks only Nandorin," said Haldir by way of explanation. "I told him only to bear word of what happened here to Caras Galadhon, where sit the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood."

"Is it your intent to travel on to Lórinand?" Haldir asked as they descended the last of their stairs into the Dimrill Dale, called Nanduhirion by the Elves. "When I was assigned here, Lady Galadriel said that the day might come when you walked the Pass of Caradhras, and that when you did, you would be welcome in her realm."

Harry had not yet met Galadriel, though he had heard much of her from Elrond, Arwen and Celebrían, Galadriel's daughter. It was said among the Elves of Imladris that the Lady of the Golden Wood was the greatest of their kin that yet dwelled in Middle-earth. Even Elrond, so wise and powerful, held Galadriel in uttermost regard, and the kindness and wisdom of her husband, Celeborn, was well known to all.

It should perhaps not have been such a surprise, then, that Galadriel had known that Harry would undertake his journey. Perhaps word had come to her of the dragon that menaced the people of the Éothéod, or perhaps she really did have the ability to see into people's minds from afar, as some of the tales said.

He shook his head. "Not this time, for my journey is one of need," he said. "But it is my hope that my return might be less urgent and that I will perhaps be able to at last spend some time among the storied trees of the Galadhrim."

"You are a rare Man, to value the woods so," said Haldir. "But then, there is the story of your journey into the East. I hope one day to follow that trail, as do many of my kin. My brothers have not travelled beyond the borders of our realm in all the years of their lives, and yet the thought of seeing Cuiviénen, the place where our ancestors once awoke... Few Elves could pass up such a thing."

"It is no safe journey," Harry warned, "there are few truly safe journeys even in these days when the shadows have been banished into the deepest caves. But I think you will find that it is worth it. You must be wary of your kin who yet live there, though, for they will not welcome you with open arms."

When they reached the lower end of the Mirrormere, Haldir and his one remaining companion, Tordir, stopped. "No further can we go," said Haldir, "for our watch must be kept over the Black Pit, even more now that the creature of which you warned us has been seen in under the light of the sun."

"Then I wish you a quiet watch, and a swift spring," said Harry.

"Namarë, Harry," said Haldir. "I wish you both luck in your quest, and hope that you will return to us soon, for a great many of our people would much like to hear your stories from the East. Farewell Helm of the Éothéod, may the stars light your way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lórinand, Lórien and Lothlórien are all names for the same place. Lórien is Quenya and means, perhaps, dreamland, or something to do with dreams, that is actually the name of one of the gardens of the Valar in Valinor, said to be the most beautiful place in all of Arda. Lothlórien gets its name from that place, though Lothlórien is a mixture of Sindarin and Quenya. Lórinand is Nandorin.
> 
> So, just to explain, there are a number of Elvish tongues in play in Middle-earth at this time. Sindarin is the most common, and is spoken primarily by Sindar and Noldor Elves (Sindar Elves did not go to Valinor, Noldor Elves did, then came back while chasing after Morgoth, the Silmarillion explains their story). There are also the Nandor or Silvan Elves who had their own language, Nandorin, and mostly lived in Mirkwood and Lothlórien. Both of those woodland kingdoms were ruled by non-Nandor rulers (Thranduil being Sindar, Galadriel being Noldor and Celeborn being Sindar). Finally, there was Quenya which can be thought of as like the Elves version of Latin, and used only for songs, poetry or traditional functions.
> 
> There is a kind of 'nobility hierarchy' among the different Elves. The Noldor are the most noble of the Elves we see, for they once lived in Valinor and saw the light of the Two Trees, which they carry with them. The Sindar did not travel to Valinor, but were led by Elu Thingol (who had travelled there, then come back for his people) and Melian (who was a Maia), so they kinda inherited some of that nobility. The Silvan, or Nandor Elves have no real connection to Valinor.
> 
> Anyway, Nandorin isn't really explored by Tolkien, save that it 'sounds like Sindarin/Quenya, but isn't'. So I've modelled it by using slightly modified Quenya and Sindarin.


	22. Joined by Allies Unlooked-for

Only a day had passed since Harry and Helm had left the Dimrill Dale, when Helm chanced to look back towards where the golden woods of Lothlórien shone along the banks of the Nimrodel, below the foothills over which the two travellers now climbed.

"Some host pursues us," he called to Harry before leaping atop a stone and shielding his eyes from the low morning sun to gain a better view.

Harry stopped and looked back, and saw that Helm spoke truly. Though they were distant, he could clearly make out the shape of the small host. They were too far to see anything of the individuals, but their path ran northwards, and behind them was the Golden Wood of Lothlórien.

"We have nothing to fear from them," said Harry, for it was clear that the host was of the Galadhrim. "I do not doubt that it is us they seek, and if they march with Elvish speed they will be with us before two hours are up."

Helm furrowed his brow. "To what purpose? Did you not send word that our path would not lead us into the Dwimordene?"

"I can guess at their purpose," said Harry as he looked out at the Elf-host. "You need not fear, for there is no malice to be found here. I sent them word, yes, but that word cannot have reached them before this host set out to meet us."

"Then why such a large group?" said Helm. "One Man alone is enough to carry any simple message."

Harry shook his head. "That, at least, is simple my friend. It is not a message they bear, or, at least, not _only_ a message. I suspect they come now to aid us in our quest, I hope only that those who come have proper skill at arms and that Lady Celebrían forestalled Arwen in her wish to join their company."

"You did not accept aid from the Lord of Rivendell," said Helm, his unasked question clear.

Harry sighed sadly. "I did not request it, and I would not have Lord Elrond request it of his people," he said. "They are not numerous, and these last few years have been the first in many where their lands have seen peace. They would have aided me, of that I have no doubt, had I requested it of them. They would have aided me, and some, surely, would have died in the endeavor. That is not something I would have on my conscience, for it weighs heavy enough as it is."

It was not long before the group drew close enough that Harry could make out their numbers. There were perhaps two dozen Elves, and as they continued to quickly cover the ground between them, Harry saw that they were equipped for battle.

Most wore familiar cloaks of earthen colours, but beneath them Harry could see the occasional flash of shining mail. Each carried with them a bow, and a few had swords at their sides. Most were dark of hair, but a few were adorned in gold and one, the tallest among them, was crowned in silver.

"Lord Celeborn?" Harry called as the drew close enough to be heard. "I did not look to find you here."

Harry had not met Celeborn, the Lord of Lothlórien, father of Celebrían and husband to Galadriel, but his likeness to Celebrían was clear. Of all the Elves in his company, he wore the finest armour. Where most Elves preferred light leathers or mail, Celeborn was clad in much heavier looking plates of metal that shone as bright as his hair in the winter sun. Celeborn was not the only figure that Harry recognised, though, for he saw that Daewen too was part of the party, her light garb set apart in style and detail from the rest of the group.

"Then it is well that _I_ looked for _you_ ," said Celeborn, his eyes bright with good humour. "For it surely would be great folly for you to walk alone into a dragon's lair."

"You…" Harry blinked, and glanced at the other Elves, many of whom were already talking and laughing amongst themselves. "You _all_ wish to face this foe with me? But it is surely an unspeakable risk!"

"Great deeds are rarely without it," said Celeborn, his voice bearing the same calming tone that Elrond's often held. "The most important thing, though, is that all those here will face those risks in full knowledge of what may befall."

"Many pardons, Lord Celeborn," said Helm, his voice unsure. "But what concern is it to you what happens to my people?"

Celeborn turned to Helm, suddenly sorrowful. "The Fates of Elves and Men are not so separate as some among our people might imagine. I have seen many tragedies, and it is rare indeed that our peoples do not share in the woe. What is your name, friend?"

"I am sorry," said Harry, realising that he had been remiss in his surprise. "Lord Celeborn, this is Helm of the Éothéod. Helm, you stand before the Lord of Lórien, and one of the greatest Elf Lords of this age."

"It is clear that you have spent much time with Master Elrond," said Celeborn, his good cheer returning once more. He turned back to Helm and greeted him properly, "I have heard much of your people. It makes me glad that the nobility once found in the Kingdom of Rhovanion was not lost forever with the fall."

"You speak of years that have long faded into memory," said Helm. "Among my people there are few that still remember even the Westengryre who drove our people West."

"Elvish memory does not soon fail," said Celeborn. "I remember when my people first met your kin, when the House of Bëor first crossed the Ered Luin."

Helm glanced at Harry, a frown upon his face, then looked back at Celeborn. "I have not heard of that story. I have heard only legends of the Beornings, who they say can take the form of beasts."

"Faded indeed have your memories, if you cannot remember the heroism of Beren Erchamion, or my lost King Dior Eluchíl," said Celeborn, and there was a sad light in his eyes as he said the last name. "More than any other house of Men, your people have shown how the fates of all of us, Men, Elves and even Dwarves, are intertwined. Though you do not remember the joining of our people, we do, and I would see that old alliance remembered."

"Then you will have to remind them of the forgotten heroism of their distant sires," said Harry. "I have spent time among them, and I know that you would find few more willing ears in all of Middle-earth than the men and women of the Éothéod."

Celeborn smiled again. "Then so I will, for there are few stories that I more enjoy telling than the story of Beren and Lúthien. But we have become distracted from our purpose." He directed a final nod to Helm, then turned to face Harry. "Those you see here have chosen to come, and no request or expectation was laid upon them, save perhaps upon Daewen by my own grand-daughter."

"With or without her request, I would have chosen to come," said Daewen, speaking up for the first time. "Once before, I left you to wander alone in the wilderness, I could not do that again to one whom I am proud to call friend."

"You have my thanks," said Harry, and he shot her a grateful smile. He then glanced towards the sky, where the sun was nearing its zenith. There was still much good light left in the day, and if they wished to make good time Harry and Helm would do well not to waste it.

"I bear also a message for you, from the Lady of the Golden Wood" said Celeborn to Harry, before he could speak further. "She asked me to remind you of the secret of the magician, and that victory need not wield a sword."

That brought Harry up short, for while he had become more than passingly familiar with the roundabout way that the Elves oftentimes spoke, Galadriel's words made no sense to him. "Who is the magician?" he asked Celeborn, as he ran through the few possibilities that came readily to mind. "Saruman? Romestámo? Morinehtar?"

Celeborn shook his head. "I know not, for her message was not meant for my ears. She told me that you would try and refuse our aid, though it be given freely."

There was a long silence between them as Harry wrestled with his thoughts. There was a part of him that knew that refusing the help of one such as Celeborn was surely folly, for of all the Elves yet in Middle-earth there were few who knew more of war than Celeborn the Wise.

He had little doubt that some news of his reasons had passed between Imladris and Lothlórien for it seemed to him that Lord Elrond had ways of communicating that did not require messengers. He feared what might become, though, if it was not he that laid the mortal blow against the dragon. Surely, all he had learned in his many years spoke to the importance of a personal connection.

Harry glanced at Daewen, who was stood a respectful distance behind the Lord of Lórien, her grey eyes watching Harry in the silence. After a long moment of thought, Harry had to acquiesce to the wisdom of the Lord of Lórien and his Lady. "I cannot turn away that which is freely given," he said at last. "Whatever fate awaits us in the North, be it fair or foul, we will face it together, as you suggest, Lord Celeborn."

o-o

Winter was retreating quickly from the land, and their northward march set a good pace. The Elves of Celeborn's company were as fleet of foot as any of their kind, and oft the Lord of Lórien sent them ahead or behind to scout their route. Though tales had spread of the darkness that inhabited southern Mirkwood, they saw no sign of its influence beyond the borders of the wood. The scouts reported some few signs of orcs or goblins passing between the mountains to the West and the woods to the East, faint footprints in the wind-dried earth. Nary a single one of that dark breed was seen during their passing northwards.

It brought Harry joy to see Daewen once again, for she and Arwen had travelled to Lothlórien more than a decade before Harry's own departure from Imladris. Such spans of time meant little to Elves, for their memories waned no more readily than their health, but to Harry it had been a long time indeed.

So Harry took delight in listening to her stories of days spent under the golden boughs of Lothlórien. Arwen, she said, had taken a great liking to those woods, perhaps even more so than the realm of her father in Imladris. The woods spanned a much greater expanse than the hidden valley of Imladris, and Daewen and Arwen had taken to wandering those woods in all seasons.

"Though Arwen loves the trees, and delights in every mallorn sapling that we find on our travels, she still speaks often and fondly of returning to Imladris," said Daewen as they walked together across the wide plains between mountain grey and forest green. "Though I think I miss the sounds of the falls the most, the woods are too quiet."

"You both have been missed," Harry admitted. "Argon has been even more short of temper in our sparring sessions, and though Lord Elrond does not show it, I know that the world seems a little less beautiful to him when he is parted from Arwen and Lady Celebrían."

"I see that Camaenor has deemed your skills sufficient to be in need of a blade in your travels," said Daewen, with a meaningful look at the sword that hung at Harry's waist.

Harry couldn't help but laugh. "I do not know that I would state it like that. I think he created it more as an unasked favour, rather than out of a need to provide steel to a deserving swordsman. I still have yet to lay a single strike upon Lord Glorfindel when he joins us."

"There are few enough even among the Elves who can stand against Lord Glorfindel," said Daewen. "I have seen him best Lord Elrond more often than not. In all my years in the yard, I think I have managed to strike him but once. What of Argon, or perhaps Lindir? They are much less experienced."

"Perhaps you have hit upon part of the reason why Argon has been so ill humoured of late," said Harry with a slightly self-satisfied grin. "I do not beat him often, but when I am able to goad him into incautious action, I have been able to lay more than one hit against him."

"Then it is settled," said Daewen firmly, "I shall have to see what progress you have made for myself. You may be accompanied by one of the most respected warriors among our people in Lord Celeborn, but I would be more at ease if I knew that you had the necessary skills to hold your own."

That evening, as twilight swept over the land, Harry and Daewen stood facing each-other, their swords at the ready in front of them. Many of the other Elves of Celeborn's company were watching in interest from their positions nearer to the campfire, though none had opted to take part. Helm was watching in interest, sitting upon a nearby stone against which Harry's staff was propped. Harry had elected to leave it out of the spar, as did not have even close to the skill needed to wield both the staff and his sword at the same time.

Celeborn himself had joined them, though not to take part, for there were surely none east of the mountains who could hope to match him in martial matters. Perhaps only Glorfindel of Imladris, and Master Elrond himself could have crossed blades with him on better than equal terms.

"You grip the blade too firmly," said Celeborn to Harry before they had even begun. "It is not your enemy, and so you should not seek to strangle it as you are. It is a friend and an ally in battle, and you would surely find that it would serve you better if you but treated it a little more gently."

Harry tried to heed his words, for Celeborn had long experience of such things, though he knew that even with his newly loosened grip, it surely would not measure up to Celeborn's expectations. Despite that, Celeborn gave Harry a satisfied nod at his attempts, before turning to Daewen.

"And you, Daewen, you hold the blade too far forward. You surely were trained by Glorfindel, for I can see him in your stance, but he is the taller, and you are more slightly built. By holding the blade out so far, you limit your own motion." He suddenly stepped forward towards her, prompting her to raise her weapon away from him and take half a step back. "If you are pressed at the wrong moment while you are so extended, your balance may falter. You must sacrifice a little reach for more stability, your speed will more than make up for the loss."

He stepped back again then, and opened his arms wide. "Now, ready yourselves."

Harry did not delay, and immediately lunged forward, though not so much that his extension would impair his balance. When last he had fought Daewen he had not yet been confident enough to press an attack, he hoped that she would not be expecting aggression from him.

There was but a momentary flicker of surprise before Daewen gracefully spun to the side, away from his strike and the motion smoothly transitioned into her own attack. Harry immediately had to step back to find the space to block the swing, the music of battle striking its first beat.

"Block only when you must," said Celeborn, from behind Harry. "When you are blocking, you are not pressing your opponent, and they gain the momentum."

He was right, for Daewen then pressed Harry hard, her blade flashing silver as it leapt forward and back, left and right almost too fast for the eye to follow. Harry dodged what he could, though Daewen had him easily outsped and he was often forced to turn aside her attacks with his own blade.

Harry started retreating in a circle, their battle tacking on the familiar form of their training in Imladris, when she had had him so hopelessly outmatched. A few of the Elves of Celeborn's company chose to join in watching their mock battle, and they too were calling out suggestions. There were of little use to Harry, though, for he still could not speak Nandorin, and even if he could, he had little time to think about such things.

Daewen swung low, and Harry had to throw caution to the wind as he jumped backwards being split across the belly, nearly falling to the ground as he did so. His balance nearly gone, he rolled backwards to avoid her followup attack. As he went to rise, he felt his sword pulled from his grasp, and when he stood it was to find Daewen but a bare few feet away, and his sword trapped beneath her shoes.

With little time to think, he gathered a fist of dry earth and threw it up at her before she could finish their spar.

Her Elvish reflexes ensured that she was able to turn away in time, but for a brief moment she was distracted, and Harry took advantage of that moment to sprint the short distance to where Helm was still sat, next to Harry's staff. The moment his hands closed around the interwoven stone and silver, he swung it around to turn aside another of Daewen's attacks. She had recovered even quicker than he'd hoped.

Though he now once again had a means of defending himself, it was much slower and heavier than the sword had been, and he struggled even more to keep up with Daewen's whiplash speed.

He knew he had to extend the distance between them, but Daewen knew that allowing him to open up that distance would put her at a disadvantage. So instead, as he blocked her next attack, he stepped in so that they were almost face to face.

She realised what he was doing just a moment too late, and before she could react, Harry had pushed her back with all the strength he could muster. As a Man, he might not have the speed and grace of the Elves, but Men were often the stronger.

Despite the powerful shove, she kept her feet, but the advantage had been gained, and Harry quickly capitalised by swinging his staff in broad arcing attacks. The weight of the staff, and the momentum he was able to give it meant Daewen could not afford to try and stay his attacks with blocks, so for once it was she was was forced to retreat before his attacks.

It was not long, though, before the staff began to feel heavier and heavier in his hands. As his swings became slower and more ponderous Daewen was able to avoid them more easily, her Elvish constitution ensuring that while Harry would tire, she would not.

Finally, not five minutes after they had begun their spar, Harry paused his attacks for but a moment to shift his grip on the staff after sweat had caused it to slip slightly. That moment was all Daewen needed, and she leapt into the air to land on the tip of his still extended staff. In the blink of an eye, she had darted weightlessly over its length before bounding over his head. Before he could turn, he felt the cold metal of her blade at his neck.

A moment later she flicked the sword away, and stowed it back into its sheath at her waist. Her eyes were bright, and she looked upon Harry as a proud teacher does their best student.

"You _have_ been working hard," she said, then she laughed happily.

Harry merely shook his head, and tried to ignore the disappointment he felt at his own defeat. There was little sting to it, as it was far from unexpected, but there had been a brief moment there when he'd allowed himself to imagine that he might get the better of her.

He took comfort in the fact that she hadn't needed to hold back this time, as she had when they had begun his training in Imladris.

o-o

Just eight days after their meeting, they heard the distant murmur of water, and the scouts returned to report that they neared the Sîr Ninglor, called the Gladden by Men. Soon they came upon the shores of a river swollen by meltwater from the high mountains to the west. It rushed eastwards towards the Gladden Fields, where it met the Anduin, eager to wash away the last of the winter snows.

They made camp there that night, for though the Elves needed little sleep the same was not true of Harry and Helm. Each night of their journey, Celeborn had bade them both to join him, and he had told Helm stories of the elder days, when Men and Elves had not been so sundered as they now were.

The first night, he had begun the story of Beren and Lúthien, a story that Harry had long ago become familiar with. It was a favourite among the Elves of Imladris, and a great number of their statues and frescoes depicted moments from that tale.

What Harry did not realise, though, was that Celeborn was kin to Elu Thingol, who had been King of Doriath and father to Lúthien. Not only that, but when Celeborn told the story it was as a memory, not a legend. He told of the day when Beren had first been brought before Thingol in his wrath, and he recalled the sadness of Melian when Thingol bound his fate to the Silmarils. He remembered Beren's speech before the twin thrones of Menegroth, when the nobility and greatness of his ancient House has been laid bare for all to see.

He spoke then of the rest of the tale, which Harry had heard in its long form as the Lay of Leithian in the halls of Imladris. The battle of power and spell that was fought between the Elf King Felagund of Nargothrond, and the victory of Sauron. Of the coming of Lúthien and their shared quest for the Silmaril. The Elf Lord even sang when it came time for Lúthien to lull the fortress of Angband into a charmed sleep, so engrossed was he in the telling.

When at last his tale ended, and Lúthien, fairest of all the Eldar, had sung a song of such sorrow and love that even Mandos, the implacable Doomsman had been moved to tears, Helm admitted that there were few stories greater.

"Such tales seem like fancies to me, yet one who has seen such events with his own eyes stands before me," said Helm, his voice a little gruffer than usual. "It would be counted among the great sagas of my people, if we had but remembered it."

"Much was lost in the ages that have passed since then," said Celeborn sadly. "All of Beleriand and the beauty that it held was lost beneath the waves, the great Kingdoms of Numenor rose and fell, and is now less than a memory in the minds of most Men. One tale, no matter how great, is but a single green leaf among a forest in autumn."

Their discussion was cut short then, for one of the Elves of Celeborn's band joined them soundlessly, and spoke in hushed tones with the Lord of Lórien. After a short exchange that was beyond even Harry's ability to make out, Celeborn waved the Elf away and turned back to Harry and Helm.

"We are being watched," he said without preamble, though he did not seem overly concerned by the news. "Listen, and you will feel it too. The quiet is too deep. The birds sing when the should be asleep, the sound of the waves upon the shore is muted."

"Holbotyla," said Helm, and Harry looked to him, for it was not a word he recognised immediately. Helm continued, "It is hole-dweller in our tongue. They are said to live upon the banks of this river, and the tales say that they can come and go without a sound. Their voices are like the chirping of birds, and if they do not wish to be seen, then there is no way that they may be found."

Celeborn frowned, and Harry could see that he was trying to remember tell of any such creature in his old tales. "I do not know of this people," he admitted eventually. "What likeness do the tales say they take?"

"They are said to look as children of Men," said Helm after a short pause. "In truth, I had thought them little more than a story to be told to babes. Even in the time of my father, when we roamed much closer to this river, they were nothing more than that."

"Perhaps they are some relation to Periannath that dwell west of the mountains," said Celeborn, he keen eyes searching the darkness beyond the fire. "Or kin to the Drúedain who once inhabited the forests of Beleriand. Whatever they are, I feel no evil in their regard. Indeed, it seems as if all sign of the passing orcs has been lost as we have come close to the river. If they are of the Periannath, then they are more bold than I have heard of their Western kin."

Harry had heard of the Periannath but once during his time in Rivendell, when he had been talking to one of the survivors of the fallen Northern kingdom of Arthedain. With the loss of their last city, on the very day when Harry had arrived in Middle-earth, they had taken to the wilds of their once great Kingdom. They lived a grim life, ever seeking out the remnants of Angmar to bestow justice upon them for the deaths of their people, and their last King.

Though the life they lived was harsh, they were not harsh Men and of all the Men Harry had met in his travels, there were few who were more learned than the Dúnedain of the North. They came oft to Rivendell as they crossed and recrossed the lands which had once been the Kingdom of Arnor, in years long faded, and when they came they brought stories.

The Shire was one of those stories. A land that had miraculously survived the armies of Angmar, it grew still lush and green, and the people who lived there knew little of what went on beyond their borders. Halflings, the Dúnedain called them, for they grew only a little taller than half the height of a Man. As if to preserve some small patch of goodness in the world, and maybe as a reminded of what they had once lost, the Dúnedain now patrolled the borders of The Shire, and it was by their bravery kept safe from the darkness.

With a quiet grunt, Harry pushed himself to his feet, and crossed the short distance to where the river lapped upon the bank. As he passed beyond the light of the fire, he tapped his staff to the ground, and muttered a single word, "Calad." Light, in Sindarin.

The river was bathed in light, pure and white, which flashed off the eddies and waves as they made their way downstream. Harry looked across the river, then down both banks, hoping to catch a glimpse of their watchers, but there was nothing save the alarmed twitter of birds.

He stayed there awhile, and let the sound of the water wash over him like soothing music. He sat upon the soft sands that bordered the water, and stuck his staff into the ground so that it stood alone, its light unfaded.

The quest of Aranarth and his people was one that spoke to Harry, but perhaps only because of his fear that his own motivations were not nearly so noble. They preserved what was left of their kingdom not because they thought they might be able to rekindle it from the ashes left by the destruction of Angmar. The northern Kingdoms had been as good as dead for a great many years when the Witch king had at last brought them low. Political backstabbing, treachery and then, finally, disease, had done more damage than any army of Orcs could ever hope to achieve.

There was nothing to rekindle, so old were the ashes, and so fiercely had they burned. But the Dúnedain did not yearn for a return to days long lost to memory. Instead, they lived only for today, and tomorrow. They awoke of a morning, and looked upon the world in all its ugliness, and beauty, and they sought to preserve the beauty, and fight the ugliness. Then, once the day was done, they would awake the next morning to do it all over again.

It seemed almost a pointless endeavour. They _knew_ they could never return to Fornost and hear the bustle of a hundred thousand lives in their messy beauty, and they would never know the majesty of Annúminas, nor the sound of the King returning to his halls, as a hundred trumpets sounded upon a hundred towers. So they did not desire it. They desired only the small victories, to know that even if their lives were harsh and unforgiving that, by their sacrifice, other lives could be filled with happiness and merriment.

Harry had been called a hero once. A lifetime in the past now, and a world away. Had he ever really been a hero, though? He'd fought for his life, for the lives of his friends, yes, but wasn't that the most selfish type of heroism? Would he have fought if it hadn't been necessary? He liked to think he would, but doubt still gnawed at him.

After all, wasn't his current quest nothing more than an attempt to leave the troubles of this world behind? He closed his eyes, and tried to picture the faces of the friends he'd left behind in his own world.

It had been a long time since he'd been able to remember more than mere generalities. Sometimes he even forgot the names of the other boys in his dormitory. It made him question his quest, and his motives. Was he really running towards the friends that he had all but forgotten, or was he simply running away from the darkness he'd found here?

The river continued to flow downstream, and it brought with it no answers.

o-o

Eyes tired by long grief and worry regarded Harry for a few long seconds until at last some life was breathed into them anew, and hope blossomed upon the lined face in which they were set.

"Eardstapa?" Audofleda asked, her voice weak, disbelief having robbed it of its strength. She was older than Harry remembered, for he had last seen her nearly twenty years previously when she was still in the bloom of youth, well tended by the love of her husband and child.

Those twenty years had not been filled with the same joy as the five that had preceded them, that much was clear. She reached out to touch his face, as if unsure that what she was seeing was not some kind of vision conjured by a mind weary from grief. "It is truly you? You have come again when my need is most great, when the world seems darkest?"

They were stood outside the town that had once been called Geongburg, but which was now called Framsburg by those who lived there. An implacable grey sky hung overhead, heavy with the tears that had been shed by the people of the town in long years of fear. Audofleda stood alone before the weathered gates of the town, and Harry stood facing her.

At his side stood Celeborn, tall and regal as a Lord of Elvendom, yet ignored by the woman who was looking at Harry with dawning hope. Though some might take such a lack of greeting as a slight, Celeborn stood in silence, and with a faint smile playing in his eyes.

"Helm bore word of your plight to me, and so I have come," said Harry, though he felt slightly self-conscious about her regard. "More than that though, others have joined me in my quest. Beside me stands Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien, the wood called Dwimordene by your people, one of the greatest among his people."

Audofleda's eyes skipped between Harry and Celeborn for a moment, then she greeted him with as much authority as she could muster in her grief, "The dwimor of that wood have long been a tale used to frighten bearns, had it not been Eardstapa who presented you, I would not have believed that ones so fair as you and your people could be those selfsame ghosts."

"And much loss has that estrangement surely brought both of our peoples," said Celeborn, as he gave her a polite bow. Harry thought he heard some of the Elves of his company mutter at the respect he was showing, but it could have been merely the wind, for Elves who do not wish to be heard by the ears of Men can be quiet indeed.

If Audofleda heard the mutterings, she did not show it. Instead, she smiled to Celeborn, then at Harry, and though it could not reach the eyes, Harry knew it was genuine. "Come, then," she said. "The Hall will not be so full of seledréam as it was when last you were here, but it shall be warm, and food will be given and stories told.

"There are many stories, and few of them are glad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make some comments on Celeborn, as many people regard him as being a bit of a bimbo thanks in no small part to his portrayal in the movie trilogy. There seems to be a general sentiment that he's a bit of a trophy husband for Galadriel, and while there is a little of this in Tolkien's writing (as Galadriel was one of Tolkien's most favoured characters) there is much more to him.
> 
> First, he is Lord of Lothlórien, and it is no honorary title. It is he who greets the Fellowship, with Galadriel in the role of counsellor. He is called Celeborn the Wise for good reason, and though he is understandably concerned by events in canon, he quickly readjusts to take account for them. I have gone with the back story that places him as a Sindar, and kin of Thingol. Some other versions have him as Nandor, Noldor or Teleri, but I felt that the Sindar backstory works best with what we see of his characterisation in the books.
> 
> I consider him to be one of the few remaining proactive rulers, and of all the powerful Elves remaining in Middle-earth in the Third Age, he seems to love it the most. After all, he remains in Middle-earth even after his wife has sailed West. The Elves in his company are Silvan Elves, and speak primarily Nandorin, which is why they do not feature especially prominently.


	23. They Ventured Once More into Darkness

"Most of those brave warriors who ventured into the Mountains never returned," said Audofleda as Harry, Celeborn and she were sat at one of the long benches in the great Hall of Framsburg, which Harry remembered from his last visit there. "Audovald, my brother, was lost not long after your last visit here, and my husband surely perished only a little more than a year ago, though I still feel that pain as if the wound was inflicted only yesterday. My son, who is now leader of our people has gone too, with a few brave men, just a day past.

"Honour in death!" she cried, and threw her hands up. "That old lie, that has seen our people slowly whittled down to the old, the craven, or those too young to understand. Would that he had heeded me as a child, more than his father."

"By what route does your son travel?" asked Celeborn. "And to what end? Has he knowledge of where the worm may be located? Elvish haste may yet see us catch him and his party before he finds the creature."

"Scatha resides beneath Bléocopp, where the Greylin rises." said Audofleda, after taking a moment to collect herself. "There, once, was an old Dwarvish hold, and there, now, does Scatha make his foul lair. A great set of stairs rises from the valley floor to the ruined gates of the Dwarves, and they are scored deeply by the Worm's claws. If you follow the river, you will find it with ease, unless he is on the hunt, and finds you first."

"How far does does he range on his hunts?" Harry asked. His experiences in Moria surely had one lesson to teach above all, that one must know the danger into which one steps.

"So far, the Worm has not strayed far from the mountains, though it is surely not much more than a day's travel to Framsburg from the Wormpit," said Audofleda. "When last you travelled these lands our people were numerous in the valleys beneath those mountains. Now, all save a stubborn few have fled south again."

Celeborn looked to Harry. "The journey to the mountains is surely no more than a day upon horseback, we must not tarry here if we are to have a hope of reaching them in time."

"A day to the mountains, yes," said Audofleda, "but the climb is a hard one. Horses cannot do it, even the most hardy of the dúnsteda falter on the mountain paths. Fram did not take with his horses, for they are the preferred food of the Worm, and cannot be turned free so close to his lair for fear of him. The climb is perhaps a day or more on foot."

"Then there is little time to spare," said Harry. He looked to Celeborn. "I would not ask you or your people to come any farther than they have. Surely the journey onwards is to be a dangerous one, and you have already walked far from your borders."

"Such a journey is no hardship for an Elf, as you well know," said Celeborn with a merry laugh. "All who joined me knew the destination, and came even so. None will now turn aside."

Harry knew that there would be little use in gainsaying the Lord of Lórien, and in truth he knew too that his experience, and the prowess of his companions, would surely be of indispensable value. He stood up from the bench. "Then we should delay no more. Every minute we remain here, safe in these halls, is a minute less time we have for our pursuit."

"You should rest, if only for a little while," said Celeborn, who did not join Harry in standing. "The leagues of the journey here sit lightly upon Elvish shoulders, but you are no Elf." He then turned and addressed one of the Lórien Elves who was seated nearby at one of the other benches. "Tolh Daewen. N'gar tass anden."

He turned back to Harry. "I will send Daewen ahead of us with one of my own. With haste, and a little luck, they may be able to reach Fram and his company before they step into the lair of the Worm."

Daewen arrived just as he finished speaking, for she had been seated nearby, and had heard Celeborn's command. "If we move with all haste, we should be able to make the mountains before dawn tomorrow," she said. "Though, I would leave now and not delay any further, if you would permit it."

"Take Gorvon with you," said Celeborn, a simple nod giving her the leave she sought. "Of all those here he is the swiftest. If something should happen, send him back with word to us, for we shall follow with all the haste we may."

As Celeborn spoke to Daewen, Harry looked back to Audofleda. "Will any of your people wish to join our march?" he asked, mindful that any such additions would surely slow down their pursuit.

"Most of those that yet remain here are too young, old or injured to travel in such haste," said Audofleda. "But there may be a few who are more able bodied, those Men who I sent out in search of aid and who have returned to us."

"Then gather them quickly," said Harry. "I also will need the bag I was carrying with me, and a fire-pit. Is there any in Framsburg who is familiar with the healing arts?"

Audofleda did not stop the question him, and instead commanded one of the nearby Men to fetch those whom she thought might join the north-bound company, then turned back to Harry. "I am the one with the most skill in healing in Framsburg, for I learned all I could after I watched you when I was a child. Though, I cannot match you."

"That matters not," said Harry. Potions may have seemed simple, but for one without the ability to see and manipulate the magic, they would always be impossible to produce. "My concern is any stores you might keep for making poultices and salves. Have you any of the mountain flower called 'Cat's Paw' by some? It is a white, star-shaped flower, larger than simbelmynë, with petals covered in a hair."

The frown that had clearly been a long familiar feature of her face returned. "I do not think so… I do not know the name, but perhaps I know it by another."

"I think I shall be able to manage without it, but it would be a great help if we had some," said Harry, it had been somewhat unlikely anyway, for the grew mostly in the southern reaches of the Misty Mountains, towards Dunland. "More important would be…" he realised he only knew their name in Sindarin. "... Gamír? Jewelweed?"

"I do not know of this plant either," said Audofleda, looking slowly more concerned.

"I think you do, though not by the same name I know," said Harry. It was a common flower in almost all the places he'd travelled. "It is a small leafy flower, often white or red but it can be almost any hue. When the flower is done and the seeds are ripe, the pod bursts to send them out on the wind."

"Hríneme?" said Audofleda, after a brief pause. "I think I have some seeds that I had gathered for planting when the summer returned."

"That should be enough," said Harry, as he considered some of the other possible ingredients he'd brought with him. It would have been better if she'd had some of the actual blooms, but it was still winter. The seeds could work, if combined with a few other things. Lime, and a little willow bark would bring out the properties he sought.

Perhaps normal Men did not have the stamina to keep pace with Elves in a forced march, but Harry would not turn them away. This was more their fight than his, and with a little potioncraft, he thought they need not be the slow burden that Celeborn feared.

o-o

Sheets of fire in hues of red, and green, and blue danced over the mountains, cast in little more than silhouette before them. The mountains loomed high in the sky, the teeth of a great maw, stretching for the stars beyond. In the language of the Éothéod it was the sweglfýr, and it was said amongst them that it heralded bloodshed come morning.

The lower slopes were cast in many strange colours and ever shifting shadows as the pale light of the aurora lept and swam across the sky above. The Men who had joined their company paid the show little heed, their hard grey eyes fixed upon the dark mountains before them. The evil portent darkened their hearts, and they found no joy in the beauty that was there. The Elves, though, were unconcerned. They called the lights the fires of Elbereth, and from it they took heart, and as they walked through the night they sang too, all the hymns to Elbereth that were known among them, and the stars reflected bright eyes. Even in the face of death, the Eldar did not eschew beauty.

They had not caught up with Fram's group that afternoon, but there had been little enough chance of that. Though there were grumbles from the Men in their group, it was decided by Harry and Celeborn together that their best chance to reach the dragon's lair before Fram and his company would be to travel through the night.

Harry's earlier planning, though, proved a boon. After imbibing one of his concoctions, the Men had been able to keep pace with the fleet-footed Elves, and even as the depths of night descended they continued their march and did not tire. Despite Harry's efforts, though, the march was not without hardship for them.

Though they had the stamina to keep pace with their Elvish fellows they did not have either their grace or the keen Elvish sight. As darkness descended, the pace of their pursuit had to slow, for even the pale light cast over them by the stars, or the ever shifting sweglfýr, was not enough to allow the Men to step surely over the uneven ground. A few times, one of their number fell in the dark and though they were quickly picked up by their Elven fellows, their progress became slow.

Slow though it may have been, progress it was still. Before even the earliest glow of dawn had appeared over the Eastern horizon they began climbing the steep paths that led towards the valley known as Scatha's Pit. It took them more time than any among them would have liked, for only the Men knew what pass needed to be taken, and they still were impaired by the darkness.

"There are fires burning further up the pass," said Celeborn, his sharp eyes focussed on something lost behind the veil of darkness not yet lifted by the first glow of morning rising over the eastern horizon.

Harry stared into the darkness beyond sight, though he knew it was fruitless. There was but one question to which he needed to know the answer. "What kind of fires?"

"They are yet distant, and beyond a curve in the path ahead" said Celeborn, his eyes reflecting the countless stars as they reached into the darkness beyond mortal sight. "But I do not think it is dragonfire. Dragonfire burns with fury, but also with terrible swiftness, it does not linger long."

"How far now are we from the dragon's lair?" Harry asked Helm, who had elected to travel north with them, and who was acting as leader among the Éothéod Men.

"If there was light to see, you would know," said Helm. "Have you not noticed that no grass grows underfoot? We are in the Pit even now, and the beast's lair is not far from here, we could be there by dawn."

"It has been many years since last I saw a dragon's desolation," said Celeborn, his Elf eyes able to cut through the predawn gloom with ease. "I had hoped to never see such destruction again."

Harry peered into the darkness but could see nothing but the ever shifting shadows cast by the brands borne by some among the company.

Here and there were the dark shadows of what Harry had thought were winter-grey trees and bushes, but now that he looked closer he saw that even when summer at last came again to the North, they would not bloom. All that once had been green in the valley had been seared black, their ashes spread upon the winter winds. It was a valley through which death had walked many times.

It was not long before a figure emerged from the dark, and Harry was glad to see Daewen return. She cut a hasty path through the Men to where Harry and Celeborn awaited her.

"You made better time than any might have hoped," said Daewen with a smile, and a bow to Celeborn. "We did not look to your coming until well after noon had passed."

"One of Harry's ingenious workings," said Celeborn. "Master Elrond has spoken of them often, but seldom does one as old as I see something truly new and fascinating. Never would I have thought that such craft was possible in these faded days."

"If you would believe it, I was never the most attentive student when it came to that particular art," Harry said. He wondered just how much he might have been able to achieve if he was not having to create so many of his potions from nothing.

"Seldom do the young see the import of that passed on to them by those older than they," said Celeborn in kind tones. "It is only after we have been granted the wisdom of years ourselves that we can see that same wisdom in the teachings of others. Such worries are for another time, however." He turned then to Daewen again, and in the place of a kindly father, a great Lord stood again. "What is your report?"

Daewen's own smile melted away, and her face became serious. "We have been here a few hours only, and much of that time has been spent convincing Fram of our good intent. It was only when Harry's name was spoken, and we gave news of your coming, that they chose to listen to our counsel."

"They number only two dozen, no more," said Daewen, "and in truth I do not think any among them had thought of surviving the night. Fram holds them together only out of the love they bear him, and of them I think only he believes that their fight is not already lost."

"What plans had he?" Celeborn asked. "If he hopes to go against one of the spawn of Glaurung then he must surely have one."

Daewen shook her head. "I do not know, Lord Celeborn. What plans they have, they have not yet entrusted to us. I have seen, though, that most among them carry spears as well as sword and shield."

"Spears are of little help against one of the dragonhost," said Celeborn, dark eyes grim. "Their hide is too thick, and their reach too great. I truth I fear that few among us will have any weapons that can hope to piece such a hide. My own sword, yes, but the craft of my people is much reduced from the days of Doriath and Gondolin. And no sword wrought by Man could hope to match even that craft. Not since the fall of Numenor."

"Then let us ask Fram what plans he had for their battle," said Harry, and he pointed towards the large Man at the head of a group of Men who had followed Daewen.

"Who are you, that walks across my land, openly dressed for war," said Fram, his face was hard, but Harry could see that he was young man still. He didn't yet have the thick beard of many of his people, and his frame was not yet so powerful as Frumgar's had been. He didn't have that same presence that had been within his father, but in the regard of the Men that followed him, Harry saw the spark of it, that could yet be whipped into the flame of greatness.

"It has been many years since last I met you, Fram, son of Frumgar," said Harry, his hands raised and his palms open in a gesture of peace. "It does not surprise me that you cannot remember it."

"Do not try to toy with me, stranger," said Fram, his hand set upon the pommel of a sword that hung upon his waist. "None who values their lives would come so close to this withered heath unless they had good reason. What is yours?"

"No stranger is he," said Helm, and the Men who had come with them from Framsburg agreed with a low murmur. "This is Eardstapa, who answered the summons of Audofleda, your mother."

Even in the gloom, Harry could see Fram's eyes go wide before narrowing again to inspect the Man who had became so storied among the Éothéod thanks to the tale-weaving of his mother. He moved his hand from his sword, and when next he spoke the earlier hostility was gone from his voice. "Then victory is already ours, if the tales be true. If your strange allies be kin to you, and have even a shadow of the abilities spoken of in story, then surely nothing could stand against us."

"This is Lord Celeborn, counted as one of the greatest among the Elves, and the Lord of the Dwimordene," said Harry, realising his lapse. Introductions, though, were not the first thing that weighed upon his mind.

"Do not put overmuch faith in the tales of those remembering better days," he said with a shake of his head. "Perhaps they are true, perhaps they are not. I know not of the stories of which you speak, but I do know that hubris will not aid us aid us in battle." He had tasted that pill too often before. "Even if you were right and our victory assured, it will not come easier simply because we believe it to be a foregone conclusion. We are still but a few, and I am told that the Dragon which we must battle has been the death of many more than we few.

"What was your plan, before you discovered our coming?"

Fram blinked, and a little of the cocksure confidence withered, and revealed the uncertainty and fear that rested beneath. "We were to await the dawn, and then battle it in its hole," he said, and though Harry had seen his confidence crack, his voice was still strong and sure. A facade, Harry realised, for if his followers knew their real chances then surely they would not remain to see in the morning. "In all the previous battles, it came upon our people in the valleys, or upon the open plains. For a beast so large, it is fast. It is said that it can outpace even the swiftest horse across level ground. We would keep it confined within the Dwarf caves."

"We cannot simply charge in unknowing of what may greet us," said Harry. "I have known many Dwarven keeps, both small and large. This may seem little more than a cave on the outside, but the Dwarves never settle a place unless their delvings can run deep. There are likely miles of mines beneath the mountain. They build them as labyrinths to stay any would-be attackers. Most would be too narrow for a dragon as large as Scatha, but even the larger tunnels will be a maze. "

"A maze where we are lost, and the Worm is the hunter," said Celeborn, his features grave. "The pit must be scouted before we can hope for success. In truth, I think it would be best if we could lure the beast out here. Within the confines of the deep ways its fire will be all the more deadly and hard to avoid."

"In the caves, if we can but get close, the beast will be confined by its own bulk," said Fram. "It cannot bring its full strength to bear for fear of bringing the mountain down upon its back. Out here, it could rampage unchecked."

"We must know the layout of the hold," said Harry with a nod. "If we can but gain the element of surprise, then the tunnels would be the best place for this battle. If the beast awakens before we are ready, then we will have little choice but to try and fight it in the valley."

"That would be wise," said Celeborn. "My people would be best suited to such a task, for none among you are as light footed as we."

Harry shook his head. "I would not ask this of them. They are woodland folk, and not at home beneath the earth. I think I would be better suited. I am not so quiet as your folk, this I know, but I am not completely without stealth. More importantly, I know how the Dwarves design their holds, and I can even read some of their signs should I find myself lost among the delvings."

"You would go alone into the beast's lair?" said Fram, uncertainty written upon his features. "Many are the tales of your adventures, but surely it would be best if a pair of scouts descended into the dark. I would go with you."

"No," said Harry firmly, and he glaced at Celeborn for support. "Yours is the largest company here now, and should you become lost below neither I nor Celeborn could command them into such a fight as we may see. I think it would be best if you remained here, and set your men to guard the gates incase the dragon should wake."

"Those among you who brought spears should wield them," said Celeborn. "Those without should look to those few trees still standing in the valley. Fell them, and dig sharpened stakes into the ground. If the beast should come forth, then we must try and confine it against the mountainside. Its eyes will be where it is weakest, but do not focus all your attention there. Even blinded, the Dragon would be able to find and kill every one of us here. All of their senses are as keen as their sight. The true advantage for us if that they are seldom accustomed to feeling pain."

Fram did not speak for a short time, indecision clear as his eyes shifted between Harry, Celeborn and the cave mouth. Eventually, he spoke: "Very well, though to leave such a dangerous task to you, who is here only to aid us, does not sit well with me."

"If I am careful, it will not be so dangerous as you fear," said Harry, and he smiled, though it felt to him hollow. "I will not seek to fight the dragon. Should I awaken it in my search, then surely it will be you who will have to deal with much of the beast's ire. There will be many tunnels too narrow to fit its bulk, it will not be able to pursue me there."

"Where Scatha may not go, he will send fire in his stead," said Fram, his voice grim.

Then, at last, a genuine smile came to Harry. "Fire, I think, I may be able to deal with."

"Even should you have a concoction that would allow you to walk through the fiercest of infernos, you would be wise not to place all of your trust in it when confronted by dragonfire," said Celeborn. "I have seen, and heard, already some of that which you can do with them. Yet, I would caution you not to underestimate the fury of a dragon. The great ensorcelled gates of Gondolin were left broken, when no other fire could touch them. They are the mis-birthed children of Morgoth, and some of his foul power yet lives within them."

Harry's smile faltered, but he remained firm. "Perhaps you are right. I cannot rely upon my potions in the face of such power, but the fact remains that I, of all of us, am the most likely to have some defensive recourse, should Scatha awaken."

Celeborn was silent for a moment, and his dark grey eyes searched over Harry, searching for something that Harry could not know. At long last, Celeborn nodded. "Though I like it not, I cannot gainsay all I have heard of your abilities. Perhaps you do have the strength to battle dragonfire as you claim. Yet, I would still counsel that you do not go alone. Daewen should go with you. With your knowledge and guidance, and her ability to go silently, I think your task will be completed much the easier."

"I would not have you command it of her," said Harry, ill at ease with the thought of forcing such a mission on anyone, even though he could see that her aid would surely be of value. "If she chooses to come, then I would allow it, but to command something so perilous from one who is not beholden to this quest would seem to me unfair."

"She will not choose to allow you to go there alone," said Celeborn. "That much I can guarantee."

o-o

On either side of the blasted entryway stood two Dwarven warriors, hewn from the stone of the mountain. Once, surely, they had been grand and imposing, but Scatha had made his lair in that hold for many years, and he had not been kind. The axes that they had once held were gone, torn away along with much of their arms. The remaining stone was blackened and cracked, and the beards and faces of the statues had been at some point been subjected to such fierce heat that they had melted such that their likeness was more like those of the Orcs who had been the Dwarves longest and most bitter foes.

Even still, as the morning sun shone over the mountaintops and found the blackened valley floor, the long shadows of the statues were cast across the ground. In those shadows the likeness of the Dwarves could still be seen, as it had of old.

Harry and Daewen entered beneath the shadow of the ruined gates, long torn from their hinges. He fancied he could hear the breath of the beast as it blew through the caverns beneath his feet. He hoped Fram was right; he hoped the beast was asleep.

"The creature could be anywhere within these tunnels," Daewen whispered, as they stepped forward, into the silent gloom.

The entrance hall had once been grand, but was now ruined. Not near so high, nor as imposing as the Halls Harry had seen in Moria, it still reflected a little of that grandeur. A broad causeway, once lined by pillars, stretched into the gloom. The shafts that had once permitted light to enter and illuminate the Halls long choked by rubble or other things. Many of the pillars had fallen over the years to the comings and goings of Scatha, his bulk too great to fit between the rows, and now only a few yet remained standing.

Blackened bones crunched underfoot. Despite Harry's every attempts to avoid them, there were simply too many. The floor was not strewn with them, it was blanketed. Another step filled the silence, a quiet noise made loud by dread. Harry stopped moving, then, and shifted the grip on his staff. The distant rumble continued, undisturbed. Daewen too had stopped, and Harry knew what she was about to suggest.

He raised his hand to stay her words, then whispered, "I will not turn back and leave you alone in these halls. But I cannot continue like this, for my tread is not so light as an Elf's…"

He thought back to his journey to Imladris, after his fall into the darkness in Moria He remembered how Elladan and Elrohir had walked so lightly over the snow that they had made no sound nor left any sign of their passing. It was nothing to do with weight, Elladan had said. Harry had learned enough during his time in Imladris to know the truth of that. He may not have learned how to perform that particular feat, but he had not been idle during his time there.

He reached into his memories of those times when he'd ventured into the wilds alongside Elfaron the hunter, of how to see and hear through every rustle of leaf and twig. Harry had not been incapable, but he had never neared the mastery of his companion then. There had always been the feeling of a lesson given, but unlearned.

He closed his eyes, and reached out with his senses. No longer blinded by sight, he was able to listen to the secret whispers of the world, those voices so familiar to the Elves. Celeborn said that the trees had voices, and that some among the Silvan Elves could even converse with them. The Dwarves believed that stone itself had, if not a voice, then a story. A tale to be told, and spun and woven into more stories.

Such suffering had been visited upon that hold, and it was remembered in the bones of Man, Dwarf and earth. Terrible fire had blasted the wooden gates in moments, the coming of the dragon so fast and unstoppable that no defence had been raised against it by those who had once dwelt there. Hundreds had died that day, their bones blackened and charred, to be crushed to dust every time Scatha came or went from his domain.

Harry gently touched his staff to the ground in front of him, and tried to speak to the stone and ruin in the same way the the Elves of old had spoken to the trees. He did not speak, for sound meant nothing to stone, and the dead had no voices with which to speak. Instead, he reached out with himself, with his experiences, and his fears, as they were eternally reaching out to all who passed through those Halls; their dire warning going unheard by mortal ears.

Voiceless whispers, words just beyond hearing arose around him, and as they did so too did a faint breeze, almost too weak to be felt. Harry opened his eyes, and his voice joined the whispers, though he knew not what words he was speaking, only the intent behind them.

'Help me and be avenged.'

Suddenly the breeze exploded into a fierce blade of wind that cut through the cavern in the briefest moment, leaving a path across the room free of dust and debris. Silently, the dust fell back to the ground, the final motes of wind lowering the crumbling bones gently into silent repose.

For a moment, Harry did not breath, for he felt sure that all feeling creatures within a dozen leagues must have felt the power that had been swirling about him. The distant rumble of the dragon's breathing still rose through the stone, undisturbed by what had occurred. He looked to Daewen, who was looking on with wide eyes, and with a flick of his head urged her onwards.

The path that had been cleared did not follow the ruin left by Scatha in his comings and goings. Instead, it led them to a narrow stairwell which wound down into blackness. As they walked the narrow strip of cleared stonework, the brilliant colours of a partially revealed mosaic passing beneath their feet, Daewen remained silent. When they had at last crossed the open space, Harry tapped his staff against the scored walls and his staff was enfolded by faint starlight which illuminated the steps before them. He was careful to keep the light as minimal as possible, for he was not sure what they might find in the darkness below.

"What power was it that moved the air itself to clear a path?" Daewen's voice was so quiet as to be nearly inaudible to Harry's ear.

Harry stopped in his descent for a moment, and shook his head at her. There was surely no simple answer to that question, and he did not wish to make any more noise than the quiet crunch of his footfall upon the dusty and gritty stone. Surely when the Dwarves had lived in that hold the stairs would have been swept clean simply by the passing of many feet. Now, with the Dwarves gone, the passing of the Dragon shook another layer of dirt, dust and grit loose from the stone of the mountain.

As they continued their descent, Harry ran his hand against the smooth stone of the walls, and he strained his every sense in an attempt to see just a little further, hear a little more. The distant rumbling continued as he made his careful way deeper under the mountain. With each step, he fancied that it drew closer. After a while he felt his hair stirred, just slightly, by the faintest breath of wind down the corridor. Behind him, Daewen passed like a ghost.

Soon they came upon a landing, though that was perhaps a grand term for what was little more than a slightly broader step. Above the door set in the wall there, Harry read the words 'Third Armory' in the Dwarvish tongue, and an idea began to form.

He remembered the old tale that had been told when last he had visited the Éothéod. The tale of the Azaghâl, and of the axes of the Dwarves. He turned to Daewen, and whispered, "Perhaps the Dwarves left behind something that might help Fram and his people in battle."

The room had been ransacked. Whether by the Dwarves in their flight, or later looters, Harry did not know. Whatever the cause, the result was the same. The floor was littered with the remains of the racks and boxes that had once been arranged along the length of the room. At the far end were the ruins of a much larger doorway, now collapsed in whatever battle had been fought between Scatha and the Dwarves who had once lived within the hold. Great cracks, nearly a foot deep and twice as wide, had been rent into the floor. Four cracks, scars in the rock, all in a line.

With the collapse, though, Scatha could surely not gain access. They were safe to inspect the room for that which they searched. A few weapons yet remained. Some daggers that had escaped notice, a single blunted sword, but Harry found what he was looking for when he discovered two long-hafted Dwarven pikes, called henafanna, lost amid other debris.

"These would serve us well, I think," he said to Daewen as he tested the edge on one of the pikes. Like any Dwarf weapon worth the metal of its forging, it was still sharp. Harry smiled. "We should bring these back to the surface, once we have found the hall where the Dragon resides. If the tales I have been told are true, Dwarvish steel has pierced more than one Dragon's hide."

"They are too unwieldy to bear with us for now," said Daewen as she hefted the other. She did not look impressed by the craftsmanship.

Harry would admit that they were a little rough, as true Dwarvish weapons of war often were. While they could create blades of fantastic beauty, often called 'Bekrâr' by the smiths, they saw little need for their everyday bekâr to be so ornamented. 'Dubul bekar hurdarud', it was said; Simple blade, easy battle.

"Do not judge them harshly for their unlovely appearance," said Harry, feeling the need to speak for the people who had treated him so kindly. "Dwarves do not see the value in expending effort in making weapons such as these beautiful, but they are every bit as effective as the most ornate and storied axe."

"Be it as you say," said Daewen, and Harry could tell he hadn't quite been able to persuade her of the value of Dwarvish craft, "we still cannot carry them with us."

She was right, of course. The haft alone was near two meters in length, and though the Dwarvish smiths had managed to make the blades lighter than any metal had right to be, it was still no easy thing to maneuver in the tight confines of the winding corridors through which they had come. They would surely catch upon the walls or ceiling as they moved, and if they did that then there was a chance that Scatha would hear them, and awaken.

"We'll take them back to the top of the stairs," said Harry after a moment of thought. "We must be careful not to make a sound, but it is unlikely that we will return this way, and I do not wish to leave them behind. The Dwarves have a long history with Dragons, and I do not think you would find a better weapon if you wish to slay one."

With no further arguments from his companion, they retraced their steps back to the entry-hall, where they carefully laid both weapons against the by the door to the stairwell. Then they descended once again into the darkness beneath the mountain.

Whatever the hold had once been named, Harry did not know, but it was clear that it was smaller than any Harry had known during his time in the East. It was really more of a fort than a true dwelling. There were mines, but Harry recognised that they were relatively new, and really only exploratory. Perhaps some expansion of the hold had turned up a vein of gold or other precious metal and the Dwarves had begun their delvings to explore the scale of their find.

His theory looked more likely when they found some newer delvings, the stone still rough-cut and unfinished, even the floor beneath their feet was in places uneven. He peered into the darkness beyond the reach of the light from his staff, the old, forgotten senses that had allowed him to find his way through the Dwarven holds of the east were whispering to him again.

They would find the treasure room at the end of the corridor, and the treasure room was almost certainly where they would find the Dragon. He glanced at Daewen, who was looking back up the short set of stairs they had only just descended, a puzzled look upon her fair features.

He decided to risk just a little more light, for he was unwilling to go any further with Daewen at his back. Was that a glitter of gold just at the edge of sight?

Daewen's hand suddenly reached out to grasp his shoulder, and her urgent whisper stilled his heart. "The creature's breathing has stopped." Then she looked passed Harry, into the darkness into which he had been searching. Her eyes went wide.

Harry turned back towards the darkness, following her gaze. As he did so, it was as if a single vein of brilliant gold appeared within it, a thin line of shining gold against the otherwise featureless black. It took but a moment for him to realise that the seam was widening as he watched, and when he did, he immediately extinguished his staff.

They were plunged into darkness, and but a single light remained, far distant, at the end of the corridor.

A great eye of gold, as tall as a man, and ringed with fire and malice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I explained most of the words in the chapter, but a few I left unremarked:
> 
> Bléocopp - Bluetop: a mountain I made up  
> Busy Lizzies - Hrímene - Gamír: Busy Lizzies is a common name for the real flower called Impatiens.  
> Sweglfyr - Skyfire: Northern Lights.


	24. To A Battle Fit For Song

With but a thought, Harry quenched the light of his staff, and he and Daewen stood as still as the mountain under which they walked. At the far end of the corridor, the eye blinked slowly and the long snake-like pupil tightened into the narrowest of slits.

Neither of them breathed for a long moment, and Harry felt sure that the beast would be able to hear the hammering of his heart. Then, miraculously, the huge eye pulled away from the distant doorway, and a great sea of black scales washed across the opening, too numerous to count. Here and there, gems studded the darkness, and shot across the distant doorway like the most brief of shooting stars. The stone beneath their feet trembled with each of the Scatha's steps, and a noise like a huge swell of water crashed down the hall, a smell of burned carrion following behind. At last, the beast's bulk was gone from sight, and their last glimpse was of a long whiplike tail, which twisted almost playfully across the distant doorway.

Beyond, as Harry had expected, shone the golden light of the hold's treasure room. With the light of his staff extinguished, Harry was surrounded on all other sides by darkness. Daewen's hand descended upon his shoulder once again, and he felt, more that saw, her gesture back up the stairs they had just climbed down.

In the softest voice he could muster, with the sound barely leaving his lips, Harry spoke: "Something is wrong. Surely it could not fail to notice us?"

"Perhaps the beast is yet befuddled by sleep," said Daewen, though Harry could hear the self-doubt in her tone and knew that she too did not believe that they could have such fine luck. "Be that true or no, surely we must return to the surface to warn the others."

"If it's goal is the main gate, then we cannot hope to beat it there. We have taken the indirect route by the side passages, Scatha can take the great halls and wide stairs, he will outpace us even if we were to throw stealth to the wind," said Harry, as he tried to think of some way to get a warning to those who were readied above.

"We cannot run blindly back to our fellows," he said after a moment, "and we cannot continue forward unheeding of the threat that Scatha poses to all who are near. I have heard enough of the histories to know that their cunning is not to be underestimated.

"We must assume that the beast knows of us, but we can hope that it does not know of our companions." He took a deep breath. "We have to grab its attention. It cannot be allowed to leave these caves before warnings can be carried to Lord Celeborn and Fram."

Daewen went still. "You would make yourself the bait," she said, seemingly seeing through his plan in but moments. "You would walk openly into whatever trap the beast has set while I cower and back to the surface?"

"There is no _time,_ " he said, his voice rising beyond a whisper for the first time. He caught himself, and continued: "We have scant seconds before the Dragon may reach the surface, if that is its goal, and we cannot pause to argue over our strategy. There can be no strategy in such haste, only necessity."

His words, though, would not sway her in time, Harry could see, and with each second he knew death stalked closer to those who awaited outside the Halls. Without warning, Harry spun away from Daewen, and his staff flashed out to force her to keep her distance as she tried to lunge for him, and prevent him from doing that which he knew he must do.

As his staff ended its long arc, it cracked against the stone of the tunnel, and a blinding flash of light issued forth from the spider web silver that ran through its length. A deep rumble shook the mountain, and Daewen cried out in fear as Harry threw himself backwards, narrowly avoiding the tunnel collapse that sundered him, from his companion and friend.

He hoped that her quick reactions had been enough to allow her to get clear of the collapse, but he could not dwell on those fears for more than the moment it took him to regain his feet. He was not sure why, but he knew in his bones that she was uninjured. As soon as he was afoot again, he ran with all his haste down the long corridor towards the glowing golden light that streamed from the treasure-hall beyond.

Light exploded around him, and Harry slid to a halt, unable to see after his eyes had adjusted to the gloom of the deeps.

His first sight was of the gold that had been piled up into a mound that was two or three times taller than he, set in the middle of the ruined remains of what once would have been one of the grandest halls in the hold. He was standing upon a small landing set into the stone upon the walls of the Hall, and to his left a narrow staircase, similarly cut into the living stone, descended down to the floor of the Hall.

Great pillars that had been carved from the basalt of the mountain lay broken and ruined all across that floor. Despite their huge weight, a few of them had been formed into a girdle that encircled the great mound of gold. In a few places the loss of them had caused parts of the ceiling to collapse completely, and through the holes that had been created Harry could see the sky above. Light streamed into the hall from above in great shafts, spectral remnants of the fallen pillars that had once stood so tall. Those few columns that were still standing reached into the darkness that clung there, and which coiled around the holes through which the sunlight streamed, all the darker for their presence.

When he looked beyond the destruction, what was left was a large and grand hall, but which was not near so large or as grand as those he'd seen in Ironhaunt. Compared to the greatest Halls of Moria, it was little more than a hovel. As he looked around, he was able to identify some tell-tale sights that the chamber was a new one, or it had been only very recently completed when the Dragon had struck. In those few places that had not been damaged by the coming and going Scatha, the stone was mostly smooth, but here and there his eyes were able to pick out small inscriptions.

They were the 'tarbith'izrâl', the craft-wishes of the masons that had made the room. When a new work of craft was created, it would be inscribed with the petty hopes and dreams of those who had laboured to create it. They would soon be lost beneath decoration or cut away to make room for whatever ornamentation that was to adorn the walls, but that was of little significance to the masons who inscribed them.

Harry knelt down to where one such inscription had been made at the base of the doorway through which he had entered, and ran his hand sadly over the words that had been inscribed there by some nameless Dwarf. It was a simple wish; that his son, who had travelled East, would find safe passage upon the road. That was the nature of the tarbith'izrâl, they were the little wishes of people who lived in a world where the horizon was usually no further than a few yards away. For some reason which Harry did not know, he had found the idea of them comforting.

With a weary sigh, Harry stood again, and reached out with his senses. He could feel the malice of the Dragon all around him. It had leached into the the stone, and the hoard of gold near reeked of his foul influence. It was a cloying miasma that threatened to overpower everything.

But Harry was no stranger to such evil, and he pushed his way through it, to a pinprick of shining light beyond, in the world beyond the gaping hole in the ceiling.

A clear mountain stream, a lake set high upon the mountainside, trees and birds and all manner of living things, untouched by the evil that lived so close, unconcerned by the fire; unfearing of the wroth. Harry smiled as the million whispers of a million creatures touched his senses with the lightest of touches. They would not have to fight this battle alone.

Then he returned to himself, and struck his staff once again upon the stone.

A crack, louder than the last, echoed through the Hall, and high above a flight of birds took to the wing in alarm. With all the power Harry could muster, he shouted into the empty air: "Scatha the Great. I am here."

As the echoes of his unnaturally loud proclamation escaped into the sky, Harry awaited his foe, and hoped that Daewen had been able to bear warning to Celeborn and the rest of those who waited above.

He did not have long to wait. Mere seconds after the last echo died, a deep rumble reverberated through the mountain. It took Harry a moment to realise that it was laughter, and that it was coming from above.

There was more to the darkness that lingered overhead than mere shadows. Now that he looked again, two eyes of shining gold looked down upon him. This time there could be no doubt that it was he that was their focus.

The coiling darkness seemed to unfurl, and a great bulk of Scatha detached itself from the darkened ceiling with an unconcerned lack of haste. There was little from his memory that Harry could use for comparison. Scatha did not appear much like the dragons of his memory, but instead had a form more like that of a monstrous snake, of such size and bulk that even Slytherin's Basilisk looked like nothing more than a mean runt in comparison.

The dark scales flickered and glistened as the light eschewed them, and the shadowy coils flowed together and descended to the floor in almost complete silence. There, at last, Harry was able to see just what it was that he faced.

A long cruel maw lined with innumerable sharp teeth, each one the size of a grown man's arm, and behind that two eyes which shone a malevolent gold as it assessed the interloper in its domain. The beast was long enough that it would have had to coil itself to fit into Hogwarts' Great Hall; if it could pass the doors. It moved upon four huge claws, each larger than a horse and equipped with wickedly sharp talons that left deep gouges in the stone where the creature walked. It moved like something halfway between a lizard and a snake, its low-slung belly just barely brushing the stone as it moved across the space in a fluid undulating motion.

"What is this I see before me?" said Scatha, his voice so deep that Harry could feel the vibrations in his bones. "Another _hero_ , come to find a storied death?"

A wave of warm, rancid air rolled over Harry when Scatha spoke, and it was all he could do to keep himself from gagging at the stench of it. Instead, he squared his shoulders, and tried to project the same authority he'd seen from the likes of Saruman, Elrond, or Glorfindel. "No hero am I, and I come not seeking death. Not yours, not mine."

If it was possible for a Dragon to smile, then Harry was sure Scatha did it then. A serpentine tongue flicked out for the briefest of moments before it disappeared again. "If you do not seek death, then you flee from it," said Scatha, as he slipped a little closer. He regarded Harry with obvious interest. "And yet you do not quail in my sight. Do you not know that Death itself stands before you?"

"I am Harry Potter, and I do not fear Death. Not any more."

"You should fear it," said Scatha, and now he was but a few feet away, a single golden eye trained unblinkingly on Harry. "I have seen more than you could ever hope to know, and I have seen yours, smelt it. It is close, so close I can nearly… _taste_ it. Can you? Can you feel its touch upon your shoulder, its breath at your nape?"

Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, despite the uncomfortable warmth that Scatha filled the air of the hall with, and he resisted the urge to turn around. He did, for a moment, though, glance past the Dragon's huge bulk, to where the great vault doors had been left blasted open. It was distant, and he saw it for but a moment, but in that moment there was a flash of light, a flash that had no business in such a shadowed part of the Hall.

"You do not know the forces with which you tangle," said Harry, as he tried once again to channel some measure of power and authority. It was no easy task. With Scatha's great maw was so very close that, if he but reached out his arm, he could have touched it. Then, at last, he struck his staff upon the ground, and the Hall was lit for a moment as if it was an open field on a bright summer's day. The only darkness that remained was in Scatha's shadow, dark and terrible against the far wall of the Hall.

The dragon reeled back, but it did not seem to be shocked or surprised. Instead, it merely laughed, and the deep rumbling of it set Harry's teeth on edge.

"Is that what you think? That I do not know what you are, Wizardling?" The mountain trembled before the Dragon's ire. "I was warned of your coming, and of the coming of your little friends who even now befoul my Halls like the pathetic insects they are."

Then, suddenly, the rage was gone, and Scatha's voice became soft, almost honeyed in its sweetness. "My Lord's Apprentice is not blind. He saw your coming before you even chose to set out. His Eye sees all that you are, and all that you _could_ have been."

The implication was one that caused Harry's eyes to widen. Was Scatha referring to the Witch King? Harry feared that that was a fool's hope. If his memory of the histories was correct, then there was only one being in Middle-earth who would be so described. "Sauron," he said in realisation.

"The _Elves_ have poisoned you against him, I see," said Scatha, spitting the word as if the very sound of it was an affront. "Do not look so surprised, morsel. I can… taste their taint on you even now." The dragon drew back, and as he did so a huge claw raked across the stone behind Harry, and the tunnel through which he had entered collapsed. Scatha drew in a long, lingering breath while Harry coughed and sputtered as the air around him was filled with dust from the collapse.

"It has been so very long since I tasted Elf flesh," said Scatha, and the beast seemed to be savouring whatever it was that he'd been able to smell.

Harry knew that there was little chance that he could delay the beast much further, but also knew that there was nowhere he could flee to now that his one escape route had been so effectively cut off. Attempting to do battle with Scatha in the huge Hall was surely folly, it was large enough that Scatha was not overly confined, but too small to allow Harry to create the space between them that might allow him to avoid or survive the Dragon's fire.

At that moment, Scatha's head snapped around to look towards the darkened main entryway where Harry had seen the flash of light earlier. Suddenly, the room became uncomfortably warm as the Dragon's great maw spread wide, and a great gout of fire issued forth.

Harry could remember still the Dragonfire he'd seen as a child in his own world, this was nothing like that. It was a dark red, run through with oily black smoke. It clung to everything it touched, and it seemed as it the stone itself was burning. Horrified screams issued from the corridor, but it was not long before they were silenced. When they did, the fire stopped, and the Hall was filled with a terrible stillness. Then it was filled with a sound even more terrible, as Scatha charged across the Hall, his wordless fury echoing beneath the mountain.

Then, a hand grabbed Harry's arm and he was pulled into the lee of one of the ruined columns by Daewen, who had somehow managed to approach without his notice.

"What are you doing?" Harry hissed, though even before he'd finished speaking, he realised that his anger was uncalled-for. "No, I should thank you. What is the plan?"

"Fram and the Men under his command are going to try lead the beast a merry dance through the tunnels," said Daewen as she peered around the edge of their cover. Though Harry did could not see what she was looking at, he could guess. The ground shook to the heavy footfalls of the enraged Scatha as the Dragon pursued the Men who had angered it. Harry was forgotten, then Daewen turned back to him. "We had not the time to find a good spot for an ambush. Once he is away from here, Lord Celeborn will try and join us so that we might plan our next steps."

"No. I already have one, and Scatha will go through Fram and his Men like a forest fire," said Harry firmly. "I want you to bring a message to Celeborn."

She met his eyes, and for a moment he thought she might disagree but then she nodded, "I can do that, what word would you have me carry to him?"

"Tell him to try and get his people up onto the mountainside overlooking the breach above," said Harry. "When I give a signal, he and his people are to draw the Dragon's attention, then they should flee as quickly as they are able."

Daewen accepted the command without question. "Then what am I to do?"

"Stay well clear, if my plan goes as hoped, then Scatha will be very angry indeed," said Harry, trying to instill some level of confidence in his words. "You should stay with Celeborn, once you have distracted the dragon for long enough for me to carry out my plan, there is little more that any of us can do. Stay clear, and if I some mischance my plan does not see Scatha dead, then I want you to try and escape. Do _not_ try and save me."

She did not look happy at that idea, and so Harry continued. "If I stay to the smaller tunnels, there is no way that Scatha can find me. The mines beneath here run for miles, I will be able to escape through them"

It was a lie, of course, for the Hold had been designed as a fortress, not a mine. It was clear that the treasure room was a new addition; probably some working to expand the Hold had found a vein of gold previously unknown. It was a good enough lie for Daewen, though, and she accepted it without question. "It will be done." A moment later and she had melted into the shadows that ringed the Hall.

Harry wasted no time in beginning his own preparations. He ran towards the center of the Hall with all the haste he possessed. He bounded over the fallen stones and debris that littered the floor until he reached the base of the mound of gold, jewels and other precious things that Scatha had heaped in the middle of the Hall. He decided that he was close enough, and, with no pomp or flourish, opened his senses once again to the world that existed beyond the sight of Men.

All about him faded, until the Hall in which he was standing was little more than a distant echo. So close to the golden hoard the sense of evil was utterly terrible, and Harry found himself gripping the silver-and-stone staff with the desperation of a man adrift in a storm-tossed sea. It flared once more into brilliant light, and the dark thoughts and shadows were beaten back, if only temporarily. In the moments of respite, Harry reached out towards the sky that was now overhead.

He let himself be immersed in the feeling of life, which seemed so much more precious surrounded by such desolation and death. Trees, bushes, grass, flowers. The only living things for miles around, and hidden right above the Dragon's den, a wonder and testiment to the power of life even in the face of death. There, he felt the spring, bubbling forth so new and pure. He could not see it, yet in his mind's eye he knew the utter clarity of the water that was surely one of the sources of Graylin.

Now that he was closer, he could get a better sense of the lake that it fed. There was a sense of order to it, one that he easily recognised as Dwarvish. Perhaps it was no lake at all, but the reservoir that had once supplied the now ruined mountain fortress. That made his plan even easier to carry out. He reached out to the stones there, and sung to them a song of vengeance long overdue. Now he merely needed to draw the Dragon back to its nest.

He allowed his senses to curl inwards once more, until he was again surrounded by the oily influence of Scatha. He fought back the urge to recoil, to return to himself and free his mind of the clutching darkness. Scatha had made the treasure his own, and it knew it. It was said among the Elves that Gold was the easiest metal to corrupt to evil, and Harry could feel now just what that meant.

There was something else though. It was nothing more than a whisper among the cacophony, but still Harry heard it, and it called to him. He opened his eyes, and they roved back and forth across the wall of Gold that was before him, until he saw that for which he searched.

It was a sword, and it was untouched by Scatha's malice, for it was older even than he. It was a blade of purest midnight black, and yet it seemed to glow bright, it's glittering image reflected a million times in the gold that lay all around it.

Harry carefully scaled the mound of gold, driving his staff deep into the shifting coins, rings and other precious things which shifted beneath his feet, more slick than oil. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the blade, he knew he had found something special. It felt almost alive, even to his closed senses. There was anger there, tainted with darkness, but it was buried, so deep that it was nearly lost, for the sword seemed to weep with regrets.

So Harry called upon it, and it answered. With a wordless shout, he spun it in his hands, and together with his staff, plunged it into the mound of Gold which Scatha had made his own. A great explosion of light tore through the room, so bright that is was an almost physical presence. The link that Scatha had forged with his horde for so many years as he had fed upon the malice that Gold so often bred would be his undoing, and he felt a terrible pain as it was torn from his mastery by Harry.

Harry fell to his knees, and Gold coins scattered and sparkled around him as a shaft of broke through the overcast skies above. He could not hope to keep that Mastery, not when Scatha had held it for so long. It was only the fact that nothing in the hoard was of Scatha's own creation that allowed him to rend it from the Dragon, even temporarily. There was something else there too though, something older and fouler than even Scatha. It was such a faint echo that Harry would never have been able to sense it at any other time, but now he could.

It was like the feeling he got when the Balrog of Moria turned its burning eyes upon him, yet older even than that. He could not dwell upon it though, for the deep terrible rumbling that echoed through the Halls announced the coming of Scatha.

He exploded into the Hall, a dark power of rage and flame. Fire dripped from his bloodied maw, and his huge claws left great clefts in the stone where he stood.

"You _fool!"_ Great plumes of acrid smoke billowed upwards as Scatha's words shook the very foundations of the mountain. "Thief and despoiler! You have sealed your doom, and those of all those who would name you friend. Those worms who cower in their hovels south of here, the pathetic Elves to the west, all will know my terrible wrath, and none will be left who remember your name, Harry Potter."

"Then do it!" said Harry, his voice seeming feeble and weak before the fury of Scatha. "What is it you fear? You spoke of your Master, did you not? He commanded you to spare me, didn't he? You are little more than a dog on a leash."

"You would insult me," said Scatha as he circled around Harry, staying out of the shaft of light that still illuminated the great mound of gold. "You who is but a tool in a much greater game, a morsel of flesh that plays at hero. You have seen the Halls that lie beyond the Walls, and yet you are blind, as all Men have always been."

"Then why do you fear me?" Harry asked, and then he revealed the black blade with a flourish. "Do you fear the power that I wield?"

"Power?" said Scatha, and at last he lunged forward, his jaws snapping mere inches from Harry's face. "You have no _power_. Only borrowed, stolen greatness. I will show you power!"

Then Scatha reared back, and Harry felt the overwhelming heat once again as it rolled off the huge Dragon in waves. With a prayer to whomever may be listening, Harry called out with all his might, "Now!"

For a long moment, less than a fraction of a second stretched out into an eternity, Harry feared that Celeborn had not heard his signal, or perhaps had not had enough time to gain the lip of the cave.

Then the answer came. It was no great rebuttal, not worth of song nor story. It was but a single arrow, which flew strong and true to strike Scatha upon his eye. The dragon roared in pain and renewed rage. The flame that he had been readying for Harry was loosed skywards towards the opening from which Harry sincerely hoped Celeborn had fled.

As the great fountain of fire reached upwards, Harry did too. His consciousness followed the flame, then outsped it. There he found the Dwarvish reservoir, and with a shout he released a raging torrent of water that fell from the breach in the Dwarvish walls towards the Dragonfire. Harry opened his eyes again just in time to see the two meet, and a deafening explosion threw him from his feet to tumble down the mound of gold.

He looked up to see the battle between fire and water being played out above. Great clouds of scalding steam filled the Hall, until at last Scatha's flame extinguished. The fire was gone, but there still was water that yet remained. It fell upon Scatha like an avalanche, and his roar of surprise was lost amid the tumult of water and displaced stone.

Harry could not wait to watch, though, as yet more water was to follow. A wall of foam and ice-cold water pursued him as he ran as quickly as he could for the relative cover of the entry-hall. It was filled from floor to ceiling with ever coiling white clouds, and Harry found himself unable to see more than a few feet ahead.

Behind him, he could hear Scatha screaming in pain, and the terrible crashing as the Dragon thrashed around in the once-great treasure-hall. Harry had hoped that the water and debris would kill the beast, but it did not seem that fate was to be kind to him that day. He continued running along the Hall, his breaths becoming thick and ragged as smoke and stream wound together in his throat to steal away his breath.

He paused when the long Hall through which he'd been running widened into the grand entry-way, through which he and Daewen had entered that morning, and which now bore all the signs of Scatha's terrible rage as he had tried to hunt down the men of the Éothéod who had been harassing him. Most of the steam was gone, but the thick acrid smoke remained, mixed with soot, dust and ash. Harry held his arm across his face to keep the soot and ash out of his lungs, but soon that became a minor concern.

Behind him, he heard the rapid but rhythmic rumble of Scatha making his pursuit. Harry turned to face the oncoming foe, when his eyes landed for a brief moment on the spears left in the entrance Hall during his and Daewen's earlier scouting. He had no time, though, to cross the distance to it, and so he the dropped black bladed sword to the ground then, in his desperation, he reached out an arm and called to one of the spears in both word and in mind.

It leapt towards him, a flash of soot-darkened silver and then slapped into his hand a moment later. He stood, then, spear of the Dwarves in one hand, and the staff of Saruman in the other, as his doom approached.

Scatha tore from the mist and darkness, thin tendrils still clinging to his huge bulk as he charged forward. One eye was bloody and useless and as it bled smoke rose from the stone where the droplets fell. His other eye, once golden and filled with terrible cunning, was now rimmed in fiery red, and held only loathing and animal rage.

The great many-toothed maw opened wide, but this time the stifling heat did not come and instead of a torrent of fire, a cloud of blistering black smoke which seared Harry's lungs as he tried to take a coughing breath. Through the oily blackness, Harry lunged forwards and plunged the spear into the roof of the dragon's mouth.

Another scream of pain came from Scatha as he reared back, only to collide with the roof of the hall with bone-shattering force. His mouth snapped closed, and the spear was driven further through the roof of his mouth and clear out the other side of his snout, until it was embedded nearly a foot into the stone of the mountain.

Scatha struggled, his body coiling forwards, as he tried to find the purchase to pull himself free, all the while his keening cry reverberated back and forth across the Hall. The Dwarvish spear, though, held firm; a testament to the craftsmanship of the master weaponsmith who'd crafted it.

All plans now done, Harry picked up the dropped sword, and dodged past the flailing claws and vicious snapping jaws until he reached the base of the Worm's huge skull. There, with a final cry of exertion, he swung the blade at the neck of the beast with all his remaining strength.

The black blade cut through scale and flesh and sinew with impossible ease. It cleaved bone, it rent arteries. Harry jumped back as he was drenched in the blood of the beast, which burned wherever it touched. He felt like every inch of exposed skin was on fire, and his own screams joined Scatha's weakened howling. Somehow, though, he found the strength to walk away, his staff dragging along the ground behind him, and the sword, still dripping smoking blood, hanging loose at his side.

With a final almighty roar, Scatha breathed his last, and Harry fell to his knees. He'd done it. The Dragon was dead.


	25. Where Found Riches, Looked-for and Not

The Halls were silent. A distant shaft of light split the darkness and the only sound to be heard was laboured breathing, and a distant rhythmic thunder. His own breathing, Harry realised through the haze of exhaustion and pain. Each beat of his heart heralded a new roll of thunder. Fire, invisible in the darkness, ran across his entire body, and he felt his skin blister at the touch. The light wavered as if it were unsure, besieged by darkness. Harry took a slow, painful step towards it. Then he stepped again, and again. Each step was as slow as the motion of continents, an entire age of the world streaming by. His own personal world was filled with the smell of brimstone, and the thundering in his ears.

His knees buckled beneath him, and, with all the deceptive sluggishness of an avalanche, he fell to his knees. There was a clatter at his side as the sword he'd still been carrying dropped forgotten to the floor, and he clung with both hands to his staff. Bloody hands slid over cold metal and stone, and he felt himself drooping lower and lower, his battered body unable to hold itself upright, and his exhausted mind unable to overrule its inevitable surrender. The still distant light flickered and shimmered, and for a moment Harry was sure it was going to go out.

Then the silence was broken, and a voice called out to him. It was distant, faint, like the first star in the evening sky, but no less beautiful for all that. He could not understand the words it spoke, but he knew them, he knew their intent. Strength flowed through him once more, issued from some heretofore unknown font within him. He pushed himself upright again, and though he still leaned heavily upon his staff, he took another step, then another and a dozen more again.

As he walked, his senses slowly returned. There was more around him that just darkness, to both sides he saw the ornate walls of the Dwarven Hold into which he had delved, scored by talon and scorched by flame. Behind him was the gentle drip and creak of the huge corpse of Scatha as blood oozed, still smoking, from the wounds Harry had inflicted upon it. Before him was sunlight, which seemed to shine all the brighter now that the Scatha's shadow had been banished from the world.

Then Daewen was at his side, and he felt the weight upon his feet lessen slightly as she lended him her arm, and her strength. Close behind her came Celeborn, and the rest of the Elves of his small company.

It took not a moment before Celeborn began issuing commands to his followers. Most were in words that Harry's exhausted mind could not follow nor recognise. All around him was a hive of activity, and he felt his weight lessen further as another of the Elves came to help him walk.

Now that he was among friends again, Harry felt the tide of strength that had borne him from the darkness once again recede. His eyes felt heavy, but he did not allow them to close. His legs were weak, but he did not allow them to buckle. He knew that he'd been badly burned, but he had not entered into this fight completely unprepared. He tried to speak to them, but all that issued from his lips was a painful croak; his throat and mouth rendered painfully dry and raw by the soot and oily smoke that had filled the caverns beneath the mountain during his battle.

Yet still something in that wretched sound was enough for Celeborn to understand Harry's intent. It was but the work of a moment for Celeborn to find a vial that seemed to be filled with gentle blue light, like a captured spring morning. Despite the stifling heat that filled the cavern, it glittered with condensation.

They broke at last from the darkness of the mountain, and shed the last tendrils of shade which clung like fog, only to be burned off by the rising of the sun. As the distant yet welcoming warmth of the sun supplanted the terrible fire of Scatha, Harry at last allowed himself to succumb to exhaustion. His dreams were filled with warm sunlight, and joyful birdsong.

o-o

When Harry awoke, it was in darkness, with stars uncounted wheeling slowly through the sky above his head. Around him was the gentle and alluring thrum of quiet conversation, punctuated occasionally by laughter, and the crackle of a lively fire. He could still feel the weight of his battle with Scatha upon his body, but it was more distant now, chased away by warmth, and good cheer.

Nearby, the small encampment was filled with Men and Elves, joined together in celebration. He watched as one of Celeborn's company, an Elf maiden whose name Harry thought was perhaps Raenil, laughed merrily at the actions of one of Fram's companions. The language barrier meant less than nothing as the man acted out some story with much enthusiastic laughter of his own.

"We Elves like to imagine that our memories do not fade," said a familiar voice on Harry's other side. Celeborn, who had surely been watching over Harry as he slept. "Yet I think perhaps we would be mistaken."

Harry broke his attention away from where the Framling was now on all fours, and barking like a dog at his friend,much to the amusement of those who watched. He turned to Celeborn, who was sat serenely by his side, his coming as silent as the breathless wind in the deep woods. "It has surely never been so much as whispered that Celeborn the Wise might have forgotten something that once he knew," said Harry, the good spirits of those around him bleeding into his smile.

Celeborn's own smile was warm as he looked upon the shared mirth of Men and Elves together. He inclined his head towards the Man who had first drawn Harry's attention. "Look there, Halwende tells stories of his brother Leof who died in the battle. He smiles and he laughs as he remembers the best of the brother who is now lost to him."

Though he said no more, Harry understood Celeborn's meaning. Had such a fate befallen any amongst the Elves there would surely have been no celebrations for a long count of days. "Perhaps the shortness of our days makes them more worth treasuring, more worth celebrating than lamenting?" Harry said, though even as he said it he felt that it did not ring true. "No. For surely he still laments the loss of his brother, and feels it no less keenly than any among the Eldar. Yet still he finds joy in remembering, where Elves would find only bittersweet sorrow."

"Ah, that my own people could find joy thus," said Celeborn. "The world would perhaps be much different than it is now."

"There is little to be gained in lamenting the past," said Harry with a firm shake of the head. "I have done it enough myself to know that it cannot hope to change things, and will only cast a pall over the days that yet lie ahead of us. My old teacher told me once, in what feels like another life, that I should not dwell unduly on dreams lest I forget to live. What else are such lamentations but dreams; that we had acted differently, or that chance or fate had taken us on another path?"

"Soon it will be you whom they call the Wise," said Celeborn with a wry smile. "And what then will they call me?"

Harry could not help the guffaw that he released at Celeborn's unexpected jest. "Perhaps Celeborn the Wit would be more fitting?" Harry suggested as he failed to keep the smile from his face.

Before Celeborn could reply, however, they were descended upon by a merry gaggle of Men and Elves who had been alerted to Harry's awakening by his loud laughter. It seemed that all among them wished to speak at once, and each in the language most familiar to them. All Harry could do was endure the whirlwind of handshaking, back slapping and incomprehensible jokes that yet still managed to convey their raucous good cheer.

It was not until Fram joined the affray that things began to calm down. His loud command quickly quieted the enthusiasm of his own people. Silence soon fell, as Celeborn's own softly spoken command was instantly heeded by his own people.

"Harry Eardstapa," Fram began, once silence had fallen and the crowds had backed off into a wide circle around Harry and the young Lord of the Éothéod. "Scatha Sigorian. Of all of the sagas of my people, this will be the mightiest. Tales of this day will be told and retold around uncountable fires, and over a thousand years and more. Already did I owe you a debt of blood through my mother, now my people will owe you a debt that is greater still."

Fram began to pace in a circle around Harry, and the Men in the watching crowd had begun to murmur and nod, the gentle susurration giving further weight to Fram's words.

"The weregild we owe you can never be paid through worldly things, no gold or jewels can account for the gift you have given us here, on this day. We will go forth from this place, and your name shall be heard in all the corners of the world, then, when at last our final battle falls upon us and we pass into the halls of our ancestors they too will be filled with tales of your deeds. This I do vow, for myself, for my sons, and for their sons after them."

"Aye!" came the cry from the assembled Men as they affirmed Fram's great Oath.

Harry looked to them, his eyes darting from face to face, each as grave as the last, and he felt the weight of their great regard upon his shoulders. He turned his gaze to where Celeborn now stood alongside his company of Elves, apart from the Men of the Éothéod once more. For a moment his expression was unreadable, and his eyes were distant as he looked south towards the valley. Finally, the Lord of Lothlórien's gaze returned from wherever it had been cast, and he gave Harry the slightest of nods.

"I accept your Oath," said Harry, his voice strong, carrying to all who stood near.

o-o

They re-entered the hold later that day, and Harry was immediately struck by the changes that had been wrought since last he had walked those halls, not more than a day ago.

Gone were the echoes of pain, silenced were the whispers of the thousand souls that had been consumed by Scatha's terribly fires. The air felt lighter, even if it was still tainted by the sharp scent of blood and smoke.

First Harry searched for the sword that had struck the final blow against the beast, soon finding the curious black blade amid the bones and rubble. Now that he was able to see it properly he could see that it was not merely black, but it also seemed to glow at the edges, like an eclipse. He swung the sword experimentally in his hand, and marvelled at the peerless balance it had. Even his Elf-forged sword was not so perfectly crafted. It moved through the air like deadly shadow, with not even the barest whisper of parted air. Behind him, he heard a gasp from Daewen, who had elected to join him in his explorations.

"That is a blade of much story and woe, unless my eyes are deceived," she said in a hushed voice, lightly caressed by fear.

Harry did not drop the weapon, but he did stop his motions. With a raised brow, he wordlessly prompted her to continue.

"There are only two such blades as this known in the histories of my people," she said as she edged cautiously closer, her eyes never leaving the black sword that nevertheless seemed to give off a pale light. "Both brought ill fate to their wielders. It would be wise, I think, to seek the wisdom of Lord Celeborn in this."

"Then I will do so," said Harry before hanging the sword at his side, the unearthly blade concealed from roaming eyes by the long folds of his travelling cloak. He had long ago learned not to ignore the advice given to him by the Elves, but he sensed that the blade was perhaps not so evil as Daewen feared. There had been something ill about it when he had first picked it up during the battle, as if it thirsted for blood in a way that no mere weapon should.

Now, though, that sense was gone. Perhaps it had been Harry's own bloodlust in battle, or perhaps the blade's thirst had been slaked. He would withhold judgement on the matter until he had spoken to Celeborn, as Daewen suggested.

He then turned his gaze upon the mighty form of Scatha, his vast bulk stretching deep into the hold, beyond the reach of daylight, or the small torches they had carried with them. Before him, quite possibly, was the key to his deliverance; the first true step on his road home.

For some reason the feeling of triumph felt distant.

As he stepped closer to the Dragon's colossal bulk, he could not help but wonder just how he had managed to survive their battle. Even now, hours after Scatha's death, the beast was still warm to the touch, and the dragon's blood still smoked when it dripped from the wounds Harry had inflicted.

Dragonskin was, he knew, much sought after in his old world for armour, and other protective clothings, but the dragons of his old world were much lesser beasts than Scatha the Worm. There was no chance that his hide could be used for anything less than perhaps a hand-shield, and even that would surely be too heavy for any normal man to carry, so encrusted were his scales with gold which had been melted into impossibly detailed tracery through every crack and crevice on their surface.

Surely a single scale from the beast would be worth a king's ransom.

"Such wealth the Dwarves gather, and to what purpose?" said Daewen, her mind surely taking a similar path to his own. "They hoard it as much as any Dragon, I deem."

Harry shook his head, smiling as he thought back to the Dwarves he had met in the East; the treasure-rooms of Ironhaunt surely put this small hold to shame, even though the wealth of that city had not been in Gold as had been the case in this place. "They no more hoard their gold than the Elves hoard music, or good cheer, or fine tapestries. There is beauty here, in the great and in the small. From the largest carving to the smallest coin, Dwarves see much beauty in all that has been created from the earth. Gold, gems, even stone and metal are as capable of beauty as are the woods of Lothlórien, or the falls of Imladris."

"There is the Gold Fever, yes, called the dragon-sickness by some, but that it has such a name speaks for itself. Dwarves do not hoard gold for its value, like Men, at least they do not normally do so. Nibgîn kidzul is how they name the treasure halls in their own tongue, and it means something closer to 'golden gallery' than the normal translation to Westron."

Daewen was quiet when Harry paused, and so he turned to look to her, unsure if he had perhaps been giving is explanation to empty air. She was still stood there, and the look upon her fair features was one indecipherable to Harry, but he hoped that she was perhaps re-thinking some of what she thought she knew of the Dwarvish people. "To a Dwarf golden finery is not something to be merely used and discarded in the pursuit of comfort, or beauty. It _is_ beauty to them as surely as the stars in the night sky, or the sound of water in a brook.

"I have no doubt it seems strange to you, indeed, I still find it hard to see the world as the Dwarves see it even after living among them for as long as I have." Harry shook his head then as something occurred to him. "Though I perhaps have the advantage of you in this, for I also find it hard to see the world as do the Elves."

He fell quiet then, to allow his companion to reflect on his words. "If it is beauty they seek, then perhaps they should not hide from it beneath their mountains," said Daewen, though Harry could tell that her words had not the same certainty that they would have had a few years earlier. It was the smallest of victories, but Harry was happy with it.

"Perhaps."

o-o

"It has been many years indeed since last I saw a blade like this," said Celeborn later that day when Harry brought the black sword to him.

"To my knowledge, only two such blades have existed, and both were surrounded by many tales of woe. Anglachel, was the blade I knew. Presented to Elu Thingol by Eöl as the price he paid to reside in Nan Elmoth. Its is a sorry story, filled with much pain, betrayal, and death. Perhaps you have heard of it, in fact, for it was later called Gurthang, and was wielded by Túrin Turambar to his doom."

While Harry had heard of the story of Túrin in brief, he had never heard nor read of the full extent of his tragedy. He knew of it only because the fall of Nargothrond was among the many frescoes that adorned the walls of Imladris.

Indeed, it was said that the Narn i Chîn Húrin was perhaps one of the most tragic of all of the tales of the First Age, an Age that had been no stranger to tragedy. It was perhaps the greatest testament to the cruelty of Morgoth among any of the tales of the Elves.

"That blade was broken, though," said Harry as he looked upon the black blade with no small measure of alarm. "The tales say that Túrin cast himself upon it in his grief, that it broke then and was never reforged."

"So it was," said Celeborn his eyes sad, with some glimmer of old pain hidden there, "But there was another. Eöl forged not one, but two blades. The first he named Anglachel, and gifted to the King of Doriath, as I said, but its brother he kept for himself. Anguirel it was called, and it was perhaps the finer of the two. How much do you know of Eöl?"

"Not much, in truth," Harry admitted. "I remember only that which is told as part of the story of the Children of Húrin, that he was possessed of a heart darkened by jealousy and malice."

"Perhaps, though I fear that malice has grown over the years, far beyond anything he possessed in life," said Celeborn. "He was no monster, and those whom he loved, he loved fiercely and without fear. That is of little matter now though, for it is the story of his other blade that concerns us. Perhaps you have heard of his son, Maeglin, during your time in Imladris?"

That was a name that Harry knew well. It was a name that would live forever in infamy among the Noldor. It had been Maeglin that had sown the seeds of Morgoth's final victory over them. It had been Maeglin who had betrayed Gondolin, the greatest city of the Elves in Middle-earth, to the great Evil. It had been Maeglin who had battled Lord Elrond's grandfather, Tuor Eladar upon the high ramparts of that city, even as the hosts of Morgoth descended upon it.

Now that he thought on it, Harry remembered the frescoes upon the walls of Imladris, and one in particular depicting the fall of Gondolin. In it Maeglin had wielded a sword of living darkness, that cast shadow like a torch cast light.

"This is the sword of Maeglin?" Harry could not help the grim interest as he looked over the blade that had surely drawn the blood of many of Elrond's kin.

"It is," said Celeborn. "And it is perhaps the finest blade ever forged by Elvish hands. Eöl could be coarse, but he was undoubtedly one of the greatest smiths of arms and armour of the Eldar in any age. He was perhaps bested only by Fёanor in that skill."

"Much ill-fate befell him, though," said Harry, still uncertain. "He and his kin."

"Do not judge him by the harsh words of his enemies," said Celeborn ruefully. "Eöl lived well for a great span of years, he was a great friend to the Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost, and a loyal subject to Elu Thingol, much though I know he wished our king had acted differently. He did not curse the brother blades, that much I know. I am not so learned in smith-craft as he, and never will I be, but that much I know."

"Those were dark days, as Morgoth spread his shadow across the Beleriand, and many unkind fates were wrought upon much kinder people, Elves, Men and Dwarves all. His story is a cautionary one, yes. It is a lesson on the evils of selfish love that all should hear and heed."

"You knew him." Harry said, as realisation dawned. He had never heard even Lord Elrond speak so kindly of the Dark Elf.

"I did," said Celeborn, his voice quiet. "He was kin to me; a cousin to my father. I knew him little enough, in truth, for he had already left the halls of Doriath when I was begat. I met him a few times though, and he did not seem to hateful to me, young though I was."

The Lord of Lothlórien shook himself from his reminiscence and his eyes returned to the black blade, returned to the world from legend. "Remember, all blades seek to wet themselves with blood. Be they the finest blades of the Elven-smiths, or the meanest sharpened shank of the Orcs, it is an inescapable fact of their being. A weapon of war cannot seek peace, it cannot save a life and it cannot heal wounds or cure disease. It is a tool of death, and so to death it cleaves. The greater the weapon, the more full the voice of its call, and in your hand now is a weapon perhaps greater than any other that may still be found in the lands of Middle-earth. It is said that no iron-forged weapon may stand against it."

"Perhaps it would be best if it had not been found," said Harry, his voice distant as he tried to hear the bloodthirsty braying that would surely befit such a weapon of war. There was nothing. Only the sigh of wind through the lonely mountain valley.

"Perhaps," said Celeborn, though his tone bore with it some doubt. "But it has been found, and it has been found by you. You have passed through the darkness, and emerged on the other side not untouched yet still unsullied by it. There is much power within you, Harry, of a kind I have seldom seen. I know not what your purpose is, or what fate might await you at the end of your road for that is surely beyond even the sight of Galadriel herself.

"I do know, though, that your presence here speaks to something more. The power you wield, though I have seen but a glimpse, could be the remaking of this world, or its final destruction. You will have to make many choices, some easy, and some difficult. This, perhaps, is your first choice. Will you take up Anguirel, or will you set it aside?"

Harry was silent for a while before he shook his head, and asked, "what would Celeborn the Wise counsel?"

"This is your choice alone to make," said Celeborn with a shake of his head. "In truth, I know not myself. I will say only this, take it or do not, it is not that choice which is important. Instead, it is your reason for doing so that will decide the virtue of your decision."

After another long moment filled once again with thought, Harry at last concluded. "Then I shall keep it. In my hands, at least, I know it will not come to evil."

o-o

Another day passed before the corpse of Scatha had cooled enough that Harry was able to start the laborious process of harvesting the heartstrings of the huge beast.

It was slow and tiring work. Scatha's scales were nigh impenetrable, and his muscle and sinew were like steel. Though the body had cooled, it was still far from cold, and the hall in which it rested was filled with stifling heat, and the lingering scent of smoke, soot and burned flesh. Despite that, Harry turned away all offers of help from both the Men of the Éothéod, and Celeborn's companions. This had to be his labour alone.

He worked slowly, methodically, with the sharpest knives and daggers he could find among the ruins of the Dwarf hold. Though surely Anguirel could have sped the process up greatly, something within Harry knew that putting the weapon to such a menial task would be an insult.

That evening, he finally uncovered the heart, though it took him some time to recognise it as such. It looked little like any heart Harry had ever known; it was misshapen, and was covered in small black scales, like charred meat. Nonetheless, he continued his work. It was well that Scatha had been so large, for Harry made many mistakes in his early attempts to tease apart the individual heart-strings.

Eventually, however, he was successful, and had in his bloodied hands one of the pale tendons. He did not stop there, though, instead opting to continue until he had a full half-dozen of the heartstrings, all that remained after his failed attempts.

He knew that he was unlikely to manage his intended feat first time.

The sun was low then, dipped below the westward mountains, and only the orange hue of its reflected glow was left to illuminate the land. Still, Harry did not stop in his work. He could feel how close he was.

From his packs he withdrew two wands. They were perhaps rougher than those he'd seen in Ollivander's workshop so many years ago, for though he'd practiced at the work with the aid of Laerornon of Imladris, the old Wandmaker of Harry's youth still had many years of experience on him. So too did he pick up some rough-hewn lengths of wood, of a few different types. Pine, Apple, Beech, Oak and Fir were all represented, in addition to the two almost completed Holly wands.

Perhaps it had been wishful thinking that had led him to put more effort into trying to recreate his old Holly wand. Now that the moment was closer, he could feel that they would not be his best option. He did not need to be reminded how much he had changed, even before he had come to Middle-earth.

Instead, he set the Holly wands aside, and looked to the rough-cut woods. The Apple switch almost felt warm to the touch when he picked it up, and in many ways it reminded him of the time he'd spent in Imladris. At the same time, though, it was not a wholly comfortable feeling. He could not remain there forever, and perhaps it would be best if his wand did not try to draw him back. He couldn't forget his purpose in crafting the wand, he wanted to use it to leave this world. The Applewood would not do either.

He then picked up the Oak, and it felt lifeless in his hands. He turned it over a couple of times, but could get no sense or feeling from it at all. He shook his head, and set that one aside too.

"What are you looking for?"

Harry looked up to find Daewen, who had seemingly been watching his silent contemplations. So engrossed had he been that he had not noticed her approach.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Even if I did know, I'm not sure how well I'd be able to explain. To a wizard, a wand is like a friend, and a part of you. It is both a tool and an extension of your will. I am no master wandsmith, so all I can do is try and feel my way through the process. I hope I will know what I'm looking for when I find it."

"Then you at least know what you are not looking for?" she asked.

"Perhaps," Harry said, still unsure just why he'd set aside the Apple and Oak. "The Oak was"— he paused as he tried to search for the words to describe the feeling —"dead? I do not doubt it could make a fine wand, but it does not seem to have any connection to me, any wand that was made from it would not perform well for me. Like riding a horse that has only known one rider, if I was skilled enough it would work for me, but it could never be as good as one that had known only my hand.

"The Apple felt warm, good I suppose. It felt a little like the air of Imladris, to my mind. Yet there is some kind of wall between me, and it, as there is between me and Imladris. Beautiful though it is, I know I cannot truly belong there," said Harry, then he held up a hand to stay Daewen's objections. "I know that you would say different, as surely would Lady Arwen, or Lord Elrond, but it is something I know in my heart. As your people mourn the loss of Cuiviénen, Beleriand, or even the Shining West beyond the sea, so too do I mourn the loss of my home. I yet yearn to return there, even though I can barely remember the sight of Hogwarts, or of the stars reflected in the Black Lake. To choose Apple would be to take one more step from that home which I have missed so much."

He turned his attention to the remaining woods, and picked up the switch of Beech. It felt different from either the Oak or Apple, not warm nor cold but instead it felt a little familiar, like the reminder of an old, forgotten memory. It was a pleasant sensation, but at the same time there was something else, a life and vibrancy that felt almost tiring. Perhaps if he'd been a younger man than he now was, it would have been perfect, but it would not suit the man he was now. He set it aside too. "Too excitable," was the only explanation he gave.

Next was the Fir, and it was close to perfect. He felt resolve there, and determination. He very nearly ended his search there, but as he held it a little longer, there was something else, almost judgemental. Harry frowned and set it down, for he might yet opt for it.

Finally, he picked up the Pine. In that moment he knew he'd found the right wood. There was no rush of wind or golden light, it was after-all a simple piece of wood. Within it, though, he could feel something that he could not possibly describe, as if he had found a kindred spirit and more, something that could, one day, be an extension of himself as he'd described to Daewen.

"This is the one," he said as he tossed the piece of wood to Daewen. "What can you feel?"

She looked at him, and Harry could tell she still had no idea what he was talking about. "The wood is rough, weatherbeaten," she began, sounding unsure. "Despite that, though, it is actually a younger branch, perhaps even still green in its heartwood."

"Good," said Harry, pleased by her insight, even if she did not seem to recognise it for what it was. "That's a very good start. The tree from which it came stood alone atop one of the windy foothills of Eregion. It shall be my wand-wood. I know it."

"What, then, is the next step?" Daewen asked as she passed the short length of wood back to him.

"I am not sure," he admitted. "I have experimented before, but I fear I have never found the right process." He set the wood to one side. Now would come the most difficult part. in truth, he had no knowledge of how to craft a wand. His experiments, while not complete failures, had certainly been no feats worthy of song. His only partial success had been an ugly thing in both the eye, and the mind, and he knew that it would not do to make the same mistakes again.

He closed his eyes, and tried to envision the final product. Rough, yes, but unmistakably a wand, a part of him that sung in his bones when he held it. In the center of it was the heartstring of Scatha, and the body was unbroken wood, no join nor hole visible on its surface. How, then, was he to get the core into the wood, if it could not be cut or pierced?

He thought back to his old Holly wand. Even after so many years he could remember every ridge and groove, every ring and every dip. There had been no blemish on its surface, save the nicks and scratches it had gained over its busy life.

How, then, had Ollivander and the other wand-crafters done it? If they had split it then the join had been perfect with not a hairline crack to show their work. Had he not known the impossibility of fixing a wand using magic he would have sworn that they had used some kind of repairing charm.

Suddenly it hit him, if he could somehow vanish just the parts that he needed to remove to get the core into the wand, then _un-vanish_ them, he'd have exactly what he needed. Was there a potion that could do that? Could that even be possible?

He reached over to his supply pack, and started to root through the various herbs, flowers and dried insects he'd collected on his travels. He wished there was such a thing as a diricawl in Middle-earth, but he'd heard no mention of such a creature. He'd have to come up with something else. The comeredh seeds, one of the southern spices rarely available during banquets in Elrond's Hall might be what he needed. That would supply the primary component.

He needed to temper that though, or he'd simply destroy the wand before it ever was. Wormwood might help there, and perhaps some of the small spiky blue flowers he'd found during his travels across the plains of Rhûn. Hopefully they would ensure that the wood would be vanished, but not destroyed.

He mixed the comeredh seeds gently into the warm water, coaxing their power gently, he didn't want them to overwhelm the draught. Next were the blue flowers, ground into a pale blue paste along with the wormwood. With careful motions, he wove them into the mixture, and they left behind a blue spiral in the murky brown mixture. It took a while, but eventually he had them fully mixed, and the potion turned white. Still not right.

Then he added the real power, a single drop of dragon's blood, which set the entire concoction smoking when it hit the surface of the potion. In a moment the entire mixture went glassy, so clear as to be almost invisible to the eye.

Still, something was missing. He had it right, he could feel it, but he needed something to activate it.

"Though I have seen you at your art often enough, the effects still leave me in wonder," said Daewen, pulling Harry from his thoughts. He blinked then, for he had almost forgotten she was there. He realised, then, that he had more audience than Daewen alone. Around them both were a small group of both Men and Elves, each looking on with interest, with a few whispered conversations passing between them.

"In truth, I feel the same," said Harry. "When I was learning, I never was all that good at potions. I cannot imagine what my old teacher would think of me now." Perhaps that was a bit of a lie; he couldn't imagine Snape would have had any _positive_ thoughts.

"It's still not done," he said, perhaps more for himself than his onlookers. "I need to awaken it somehow, only then will it work."

"Perhaps some miruvor?" said Daewen, her voice light with wit, but Harry knew the moment the word passed her lips that, jest or no, she'd found the right answer. He knew well the power and revitalising effects of the Elven cordial, perhaps it would serve the revitalise his concoction too.

"I think that may be exactly what I need," said Harry, his excitement beginning to grow. He stopped. "But I do not have any among my supplies."

"Nor I," said Daewen, regret clear in her tone. Neither of them had thought to bring it, for water was always much easier to come-by in the wilds.

Harry slouched back where he sat, and released a heavy sigh of frustration. Of course he would again have to wait, he had done little else since he had begun his quest to return home.

A hand came to rest gently upon his shoulder, and Harry looked up to be met by Celeborn's ageless face. Celeborn smiled, and held out a small glass vial. "The Lady Galadriel gave me this before I departed," he said by way of explanation. "She said that you may have use for it."

His hands shaking slightly, Harry took the tiny vial, which surely could not contain more than a thimble-full of liquid. As he looked closer, he could see that it was no miruvor, at least, it was not the miruvor he had imbibed during sessions of merrymaking with the Elves of Elrond's house. "What is this?"

"Miruvórë," said Celeborn, and Harry heard Daewen's breath hitch in surprise. "Of which the Miruvor you know is but a poor imitation. It is, I think, the last of its type anywhere east of the sea. The Lady has carried it with her for many ages of the world, as a reminder of the home which she forsook for Middle-earth."

"I…" Harry tried to find the right words "... I cannot take this, Lord Celeborn. Its value is too great; its worth, too high." In truth, he still did not know what the liquid was, but he did know what it represented to the Lady Galadriel.

"The Lady has granted you this, Harry," said Celeborn firmly, "and she is not one to be denied in her gifts. She does not tell me the purpose in her every action, but I know that it is there nonetheless."

In the face of such determination, Harry found he could not turn the gift down a second time. "Then I shall at least try to avoid using it all," said Harry, deciding on a compromise.

"You may try," said Celeborn, but his knowing gaze told Harry that he would not come out on top this time.

He turned then back to his concoction, and the Pine branch. He couldn't simply add the Miruvórë to his potion, for then it would surely vanish his cauldron, along with some of the fire-pit beneath. After a moment's thought, he picked up the wand wood, and, with the greatest of care, dabbed a tiny amount of the Elvish cordial on the broadest end of the branch. Then, using another branch as a brush, he carefully applied a single drop of his incomplete vanishing potion to the same spot.

There was a rush of something, barely more than the faintest summer breeze upon his senses, yet it was undeniable.

A moment later, he was sure of it. It was almost invisible to the eye, but there was a tiny dip in the wood where he'd applied his potion.

A hair's width of wood had vanished.

Harry glanced up to where Celeborn and Daewen both were looking on. Daewen met his gaze, her eyes searching; for a moment, Harry thought he saw surprise upon the face of Celeborn, but in the span of a moment it had gone, and was replaced by the firm gaze of a Lord of the Eldar. He gifted Harry the slightest smile, which Harry couldn't help but return tenfold.

"This will work," Harry said, his words came quickly, rushed from his mouth by the gathering throng of his thoughts. "Thank you, my Lord. And thank your Lady. This is… this is it, I think. I feel it, more than that, I know it. This will be my wand, and my first true step upon the road I must take home. I owe you more than I can ever hope to repay."

Celeborn raised a hand to stop him. "Your thanks are well received, and it gladdens me to see that my Lady's gift is not undervalued. There is nothing to repay, however, for that is the nature of gifts. The Lady Galadriel did not _sell_ you one of her last reminders of Valinor, for there is no wealth in all of Arda or Aman that could hope to buy it."

"I — Of course," said Harry. He rose to his feet then, and gave Celeborn a respectful bow. "I would not mean to demean the gift that has been given to me. Perhaps, once all is done here, I might return with you to Lothlorién, to thank the Lady Galadriel myself."

"We would be pleased to receive you," said Celeborn, a faraway look in his eyes. "I know that my daughter, and granddaughter will rejoice to see you once again. Perhaps we will even prevail upon you to stay awhile. There are few sights in Middle-earth more beautiful than the deep woods of Lothlorién in the spring."

But all Harry could think of was the first time he'd laid eyes upon Hogwarts, crowned in stars.

o-o

Harry was awoken by music. It was hard to describe, a chaotic medley of every instrument he had even known, and yet more besides. Drums, and harps, horns and piccolos and, distant and muffled, the faintest memory of some kind of fiddle or viol.

When his eyes opened, the music vanished from his senses and he was greeted by a slate-gray sky and a cold wind out of the north.

He had worked late into the night the evening before. Long after all the Men had retired to bed, and the Elves had left to enjoy the night sky before the clouds rolled in, he had worked carefully, and painstakingly on his wand.

It had taken hours to vanish a deep enough channel into the wood, but he had managed it in the end, in the slowly dying light of his flickering fire. He had married the wood and the core together then, and nothing had happened. He'd known it could not be so simple, for at that point he did not hold a wand, only a piece of dragon, and a length of wood. He needed to unvanish the wood, both the string, and the wood needed to be whole again, and more than whole. They needed to be one and the same, if they were to become a wand.

That had been the purpose of the blue flowers in his potion. By working them in together with the wormwood, he'd been trying to add some kind of recovery effect to the draught. He'd meant for the wood to unvanish. The problem was he did not know how long it would take.

It had happened after he'd succumbed to sleep.

In his hand was a brand new wand. It was no beautiful thing like Ollivander's creations; in truth it still looked to be an unassuming stick, blown from a mountain Pine by the winter winds. Uncomely though it was to the eye, it was without doubt the most wonderful wand Harry had ever held. He could feel the power that hid within it, it was like a drumbeat upon his fingers, and reverberated through his body and through his mind.

He did not know if it was simply due to his greater affinity with magic, but it felt like so much more than his Holly wand. Where his Holly wand had felt like a living thing, this wand almost felt like it had a will of its own. It cried out to be used, to be unleashed.

Harry heeded its siren call. In that moment there was only one spell he could think to cast. His voice rang out across across the valley, powerful and filled with joy.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Harry has a wand at long last, and a brand new sword in the form of Anguirel. I found it rather difficult to discuss the origin of the sword without falling down the rabbit-hole that is the Silmarillion. Given that Anguirel and its brother had roles in many of the pivotal events of the First Age, I had to condense it down significantly so as not to drone on.
> 
> I will note that I have made Eol and Celeborn kin. Eol is explicitly named as 'kin' to Elu Thingol, though the manner of that relation isn't known. Similarly, Celeborn in his Sindar incarnation (Depending on the version you read, he was either Teleri from Aman, or a Sindar of Doriath, I have elected for the Sindar option) was also kin of Thingol. By that measure, I have made them cousins, with Celeborn being grandson of Elmo, and Eol being son or grandson of Olwe.
> 
> And so concludes the first arc.


	26. Interstitium: Memory Passed into Myth

The faint glow of a quietly smouldering hearth cast warm shadows across a dimly-lit room. Outside, the air was filled the the loud stillness of the broad planes at night; the chirrup of crickets, and zip and buzz of other unseen insects filled the air. The sky overhead was filled with glittering stars which spanned across the great dome, from dark horizon to dark horizon. The last vestiges of distant fire shone in a thin band atop the western mountains.

Inside, a boy listened with rapt attention as his father recounted an old story. It was one that had been told to him by his own father, and then by his father before him and so on through generations into the uncertain mists of the far distant past. Yet, while the story was an old one, the father's words rang with certainty for it was one of the oldest stories of their people, and one of the most important.

"Then he spoke great words of power in a tongue older, perhaps, than even the Elves. So old, so powerful were they that the mountains themselves trembled to hear them. A great white beast issued forth from his outstretched hand, so bright that in that moment it outshone even the rising sun."

"It was the White Hart, wasn't it father?" asked the boy in excitement.

The father nodded. "That is was. Kin, perhaps, to the greatest of stags to ever roam the woodlands of the world. The pennants and banners of our people you have seen, but none could ever do the Hart of the Wanderer justice. It shone with such terrible light that all evil was burned by its touch, and even the deepest of darkness was banished into memory while it lingered.

"The Hart made not a sound as it passed over the valley, and where it went it drove all shadows before it. Where its hooves smote the ground there was a flash of purest light, but not a sign of its passing was left. No sign at all, though as years passed, it was said that where it went the grass grew taller and greener, and the flowers bloomed more brilliantly."

The child bounced in excitement. "Where did it go father? Will I ever get to see it?"

"It goes with the Wanderer, little one," said the father with a fond smile hidden behind a full russet beard, "for they are but one and the same, the Wanderer and his Hart."

"Then the Wanderer, father. Where is he?"

The father reached over to ruffle the boy's hair, but was thwarted when the child ducked just out of range. "Where _is_ he, father? Will I ever get to see him?" the boy asked again, youthful impatience shining in his eyes.

"None know upon what roads his travels lead him, though the tales are many. Some say he has travelled so far into the South that summer became winter, and winter became summer, and where strange stars shone upon him in the night. They say that he fought a Pirate King atop a great sea-beast larger than even Scatha, so large that a town grew up on the island of its corpse. Another story tells of his journey far into the East, beyond plain and mountain, until he came upon an endless sea of liquid gold which he sailed for years upon a boat made of bones."

"Tell me one of _those_ stories, father!" said the boy, his excitement undiminished.

"Are you sure, my son?" asked the father, his smile returned. He knew the answer, of course. "It is late, and you must awaken early tomorrow to see to the horses as is your duty."

"Yes, yes, oh yes! Father, please. I will awaken extra early, before even the sun is over the horizon, I will!"

With a single practiced motion the father plucked the exuberant child from the air mid-jump and set him down upon his bed. "Calm down, my son, calm down. I shall tell you another story. If you promise that you will go to sleep, once the tale is done?"

The boy hurriedly shimmied beneath the furs upon his bed. A moment later he stared at his father with expectant eyes.

"Do you promise?" The father asked again.

The boy nodded urgently.

"You must say it, or I will speak no more of the Wanderer's labours," said the father, his words stern. "Words are a man's bond—"

"'And no man is he who's bond be breakit'," the boy parroted in the sing-song voice of one who had heard it many times before. "I _know_ father. I promise to sleep once the tale is told."

"Good," said the father, and the stern visage was gone, replaced once again by a father's fond warmth. "Then shall I tell you of the Fall of the Moon Tower, or the Deepwood Strife? Hmmm…"

For a moment the only sounds to be heard were the occasional pop-hiss of the slowly dwindling fire, and the impatient shifting of the boy beneath the furs of his bed. The father stared into the embers.

"Far to the south of here," the father began, "upon the banks of the Great River there is a Kingdom, and at the centre of the Kingdom, the seat of the King himself, stands the Tower of the Sun. A great mountain that shines like white gold when the sun rises over the eastern mountains. Around it stands a city larger than any you have ever seen, and with halls made not of wood, but of pale white stone."

"Is it a Dwarf-hold, father?" asked the boy.

"Hush, and let me tell the tale," said the father, with a sideways glance. "But no. Not Dwarves, it is a Kingdom of Men, and it is the bastion against the Great Evil. For it borders the Land of Darkness, where all dread things may find a home. Orcs, Trolls. Some even speak of great flying beasts, vultures larger than a house with only foul black leather where feathers should be.

"Many years ago, that Kingdom had not one great tower, but two. The Tower of the Moon it was, and it was twin to the Sun. A tall city of shining stone, it did not glow in the morning, but in the evening as the Moon rose into the sky it is said that it was even more beautiful than its brother.

"But as the Moon is surrounded by night, so too was that Tower surrounded by darkness. No other city was so close to the Land of Darkness as that city, and ever was it under threat from the servants of the Great Evil. One of those servants coveted it more than any other.

"The Witch-King, they call him and it is said that he is a Man, but if he be a Man, then I am a holbytla. It is said he stands more than nine feet tall, and is clad always in midnight. Where he treads, men lose heart, and his dread voice can make even the bravest of men turn coward. Terrible magic lends him strength enough to cleave a horse in two, and sustains him even through age and death. He is the enemy of all true-hearted Men, and the amongst greatest of his enemies was the King at the time, who ruled from atop the Tower of the Sun." As he spoke, it seemed as if a little of the warmth was drained from the room, and the shadows lengthened and darkened if only fractionally.

"Long enemies had they been, since the King had delivered a defeat to the Witch-King in the lowlands west of the Misty Mountains, in the time of our forefathers."

"What about the Wanderer, though, father? What about him?" the boy asked, his impatience mastering him for a moment.

"His role will come," said the Father. "You must remember, though, that there are more who fight evil than just he. We all have our parts to play, as does he.

"Now… Where was I?" He paused a moment as he thought back. "Yes, so they were great enemies and each held an abiding hatred for the other, though I think the Witch-King holds an abiding hatred for all things that walk freely beneath the open sky.

"Upon his defeat in the North, the Witch-King fled south into the land of his dark Master, and there over long years he hatched his revenge. A great host he gathered to himself, and terrible lieutenants did he raise. It is said that the host was so great that to see it marching was like watching a river of fire flow over the land, for they marched only at night, and set alight in their passing all that was green and growing.

"So it was, that long years after he had been thought defeated, the Witch-King marched from the Land of Darkness, and cast aside the paltry defences arrayed against him. Even his terrible host, though, could not break the walls of the Moon Tower, for they were protected by a power no Man, save perhaps the Wanderer, now knows. Its outer walls are taller than ten men, and made of a black stone that is said to have the look of frozen waters beneath starless skies, black and fathomless. No artifice of Man could mark them, and even the sorcery of the Witch-King could find no purchase upon their flawless heights.

"And so they laid it to siege. For two years the siege held. Two years the Men of the Tower held out against the darkness, their fastness proving too much for the terrible foes that stalked the lands below those unbreachable walls."

"It was the Wanderer, wasn't it, father, that allowed them to resist for so long?" said the boy, his eyes wide with mixed wonder and excitement.

"No!" his father responded, mirth dancing in his eyes. "Not the Wanderer, not yet. No, it was the simple courage of Men that held those walls. Though they may have been starving as their food ran low, and though sickness surely came to them to exact its terrible toll, their courage held those walls firm. Remember, my son, no matter how strong the wall, without brave men to stand atop it, it is little more than a pile of earth and stone.

"Without brave men, a sword is but a useless piece of metal, soon to rust, and a horse is nothing more than a scared beast. And no Man, no matter how mighty, can hold a wall alone.

"But I have forgotten where I was again…" he trailed off as the boy waited impatiently. "Ah, yes. For two years those walls held thanks to the valour of the defenders. Yet the King was not idle and he sent his own armies to break the siege yet the siege stood unbroken. Too great was the Host of the enemy, too cunning was the Witch-King, too terrible were his lieutenants. Even the King himself, at the head of his own personal guard, could not breach the sprawling camp, filled always with the baying of terrible beasts, that had grown up around the once shining Tower of the Moon.

"Blades fell upon the relief armies in the dark while they were encamped. In the mornings, their scouts were dead. Some gone without trace, others left were they fell, their bodies hewn, their life-blood staining the earth. Fire spread throughout the trains, and could not be quenched. Disease spread among the food stores and claimed any who ate from them. With each night the hosts of Men dwindled, and each new dawn revealed to the King the new casualties. Casualties he could scarce afford.

"Then came a challenge, brought by one of the Men who had long been thought lost. His body and mind were broken. Pale as a wight, and little more than worn leather upon bones, but he bore the message to the King. 'Defeat me in single combat, and the siege will be relieved. Cower, as you did at Fornost, and Gondor shall be brought to ruin by my hand'. Then, even as he uttered the final word, the messenger collapsed, at last permitted to die by the Witch-King's vile ensorcellment"

"Did he win, Father?" asked the child, his face pale in the darkness.

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose," said the Father. "For a short time, at least. You see, my son, he did not accept the challenge. Much though he wanted to take up the challenge, to satisfy his long hatred, he was persuaded not to by his captains."

"But he could have ended the war then!" cried the boy. "If he but had the courage to face his enemy upon the field."

"Could he? He was but a Man. A great one, and a wise King, yes, but a Man still. In the Witch-King can be found the vile power of the Great Evil. Taller and stronger than any living man, he does not tire, nor does he need to sleep or eat. Perhaps the King could have won, but more likely he would have died, and with him would have died all hope of victory. Even if, by some chance, he had been able to win in single combat, the Great Enemy has little use of words, save perhaps as commandments to their numberless slaves. They have even less use for honour. Had he threatened the power of the Witch-King in that duel then surely the host of the Enemy would have cut him down before his own men could rescue him.

"No, he saw the truth, that his Kingdom, and all of the people within it, was worth more than his own pride and honour, and so he did not meet the challenge. Instead he took what remained of his armies, and marched them home, leaving only a small force of rangers to harry and harass the forces of the Witch-King."

The child was silent then, his face clearly showing the struggle beneath. "He fled?"

"No, my son. He retreated. There was no victory that could be won there that day, his army so wearied and harried. So outnumbered and without hope were they that the armies of the Witch-King would surely have defeated them. The siege would have been lost and who, then, would have defended the rest of his people, after he senselessly spent the strength of his Kingdom in a futile battle?

"No. He retreated, and ordered his army to fortify every town, village, hill and river between the Land of Darkness and his own. Where before the Witch-King had turned the night against the armies of Men, the King would turn the land against the Witch-King. Rangers patrolled the lands of the Moon, their arrows ever threatening any servant of the Dark Tower who travelled hence. And he returned home to govern. To protect his people from pirates to the west, to shelter them from savage Men in the East. To feed his people, and to offer them hope."

"What happened then, father? Did the Wanderer return then from his travels?" asked the boy, his previous exuberance long forgotten.

"He did not. Not for years did the Wanderer come to the lands of the King. For his travels had borne him to distant lands, where he had walked beneath unfamiliar skies. He is, for all his power, but one Man, and can only be in a single place at a time. The Tower of the Moon fell. Those few Men who survived by then were put to the sword, or shackled, and their blood used to mortar the stones of the new dark city tower that took the place of the once shining tower.

"But the Kingdom did not fall, as it may well have done had the King chosen to fight. Their Rangers bled the armies of Darkness at every opportunity, and the Witch-King grew enraged at their victories. Every force he dispatched to harry or pillage the realms of Men returned halved in strength, if they ever returned at all. He was left a prisoner within his own walls, even with no siege without.

"The Witch-King's powers, though, are more than mere blades. In those years, from his golden hall atop the highest pinnacle of the Tower of the Sun, the King oft turned towards that which he called his greatest shame. Though he did not know it, for many leagues lay between them, the Witch-King matched his gaze, and through their distant meeting, wrought his subtle sorcery.

"Injured pride festered within the King. He heard the whispering of his court, and saw the dark clouds that ever turned over the once brilliant Tower of the Moon, and he became prone to angry outbursts. More than once, he sent fruitless armies into the maw of darkness, never to return, in a futile effort to reclaim the honour that had never been lost. Surely the fires of his folly were stoked by servants of the Enemy, whether knowing or not, but he grew blind to them, as a darkness descended upon his mind.

"It was then, once his mind was filled with anger and despair, that the Witch-King challenged him once again to single combat.

"What loyal advisors he had counselled against the folly, for they had seen the wisdom of his decision the first time, but he would not hear them. He heard only the screams of the Men he'd failed; saw only the heads of the soldiers that had been delivered to the doors of his city in the night.

"Against their wishes, he rode out to meet the Witch-King.

"Two days after the King rode out, The Wanderer returned at last to the Kingdom, to find it already mourning its last King. The Royal Steward, in whom the King had left his authority until the day of his return, rode to meet the Wanderer at the gates, and spoke to him the extent of the King's folly. For he had ridden forth with but a token guard, only a dozen Men to provide for his protection as he rode through the lands of the Enemy.

"So the Wanderer rode too, with greater haste than any mortal horse should possess, perhaps greater even than the Mearas of legend."

"Did he get there in time, did he stop the King? Did he defeat the Witch-King?" All thought of sleep was gone from the child's mind.

"He reached the King's company in the very vale where the armies of the Enemy had once put the Tower of the Moon to siege. Gone were the once green pastures, and the distant sounds of birdsong. After years beneath the gaze of the Witch-King there was only the silence of the grave, bones littering a once fertile land, the very air choked with smoke and fume.

"But the King was not there, for he had not paused when he had commanded them to wait. He had ridden on to the Black Gates wherein his certain doom awaited with all the patience of a tomb. As the Wanderer crested the next rise, flanked by the King's guards, he saw the King standing before the Gates. Upon the wind they heard the King issue his challenge. They felt the ground rumble and shift as the great Gates started to open inwards.

"The Wanderer then threw back his long travelling cloak to reveal maille and plate of shimmering silver, and he held his great staff aloft as his power was put forth. Suddenly, great chains wrought of light appeared and held fast the Gate before it could truly open. The voice of the Wanderer echoed then between mountain and Vale, a command and a plea to the King, to step back from his folly.

"His power, great though it was, was not enough. With a surge of his own vile power, the Witch-King broke the bindings of the Wanderer, and rode beyond the Gates of his terrible realm. He passed the King with not even a glance, and before the King could raise his sword, he was dead, pierced by a dozen arrows or more. Instead, the Witch-King upon his misbegotten steed, rode out to meet the Wanderer.

"What passed between them, then, no-one knows, for the Wanderer sent the the guards to retrieve the Kings body from beneath the black walls, and it is seldom, now, that he tells his own stories. What is told, though, was the battle that followed. It is said that the hills themselves shook to behold it, as the Wanderer put forth the greatest of his powers. Their swords clashed, and with each meeting of their black blades, a great flash of light and flame surrounded them.

"Much greater than the meeting of their swords, though, was the meeting of their minds. Great serpents of pure starlight struck at the Witch-King, only to be thrown back and impaled by spears of dark fire. The earth itself rose up at the Wanderer's command, to rip the Witch-King's steed from beneath him, yet darkness had crept even into the bones of the earth, so close were they to the land of the Enemy. In moments the Witch-King turned the earth back against the Wanderer and he too saw his horse killed beneath him as he was thrown to the ground.

"So the battle continued, the darkness of the Witch-King, and the light of the Wanderer. Great roaring beasts appeared and moments later were slain, dark fires rose up and were doused, trees became lumbering creatures, before they were set to flame. Their burning limbs became burning swords, and flew at the Witch-King, only to be turned aside by a flaring of dark power. Light and shadow, fire and ice, lightning and earth did battle that day, and steel rang against steel.

"Their battle continued so long that soon the sun was setting beneath the Western horizon, and in Darkness surely the powers of the Witch-King would be multiplied. The Men had long since fled with the body of their King, and soon the Wanderer would be surrounded on all sides by the foul dark-dwelling creatures of the Great Enemy. Then from the growing gloom, an arrow struck out, and pierced the Witch-King! Two of the King's guards had turned back to aid the Wanderer, and moments later they joined the battle alongside him, their war-cries echoing through the dusk.

"In seconds, one had lost an arm to his elbow, and the other had been thrown to the ground by the Witch-King's inhuman strength. They gave the Wanderer his opening, though, and like the swiftest viper he struck, twice, thrice!

"It availed him not at all, for the Witch-King merely laughed as he dropped his burning blade and caught the black blade of the Wanderer in his gauntleted hand. The ancient sword bit deep into iron and steel, but there is more than sinew that binds the flesh of the Witch-King. No mere flesh could have stood against the blade of the Wanderer. Spells both ancient and terrible and unbreakable by mere steel knit together the bones and flesh of the Witch-King, spells left unbroken by even the Wanderer's shadow blade. The Witch-King pulled the Wanderer close, and gripped his head in is other fist, and spoke words of such dark terror that no man has ever willingly repeated them."

The father paused for a moment, savouring the tension. "Perhaps I should leave the rest of the story for another night?" he said as he fought to conceal his smile. "It is, after all, very late indeed, and you gave your word that—"

"Father!" cried the boy, with all the wronged indignation a child could manage. "You cannot leave a story unfinished!"

"Hmmm…" He ran his hand through his beard as he pretended to take his time thinking it over. "... Very well then. Now, where was I?"

"Words of dark terror, father! How could you forget?"

"Ah, yes. And the Witch-King spoke to the Wanderer words of dark terror that may fill even the bravest man with dread, and which have never been spoken by any man since. The Wanderer, though, did not flinch, and held the terrible gaze of the Witch-King. He spoke, in the same dark tongue used by the Witch-King, a single word though none now save he and the Witch-King know what that word was. Then the White Hart burst forth from the Wanderer, and with it came an explosion of light so bright that the Witch-King was driven back.

"Long years had it been since the Witch-King had known any human ills. No hunger, nor thirst, no pain of any kind had ailed him since he had become a servant of the Darkness. On that day he knew pain again, for his scream rent the very heavens and drove the stars themselves to flight. All around him, his creatures burned in the light that shone upon them, and they broke, scattered to the winds like ashes. So too the Witch-King, until all that remained was a waning shadow amidst the light, which fled before the Wanderer into the shadows beyond the mountains where his Master dwells."

"So, he is dead, then?" asked the boy, as fear warred with awe in his wide eyes.

"Perhaps," said the father, his gaze distant. "Many say he is, for how could he not be dead after the Wanderer struck him such a mortal wound? Yet the stories that come from the South still speak of a shadow of malice that rules over the Tower of the Moon. They speak of a dark and terrible King, taller than any man, with a sword of dark flame and a hatred for all who walk freely beneath the sun.

"Perhaps such evil as the Witch-King cannot die, or perhaps it is some new lieutenant of the Great Evil, again empowered by their dark master as was the Witch-King. In truth, it matters little whether he died, or if he is yet bound to life. All we must know, my son, is that evil can never be truly vanquished, only diminished in its power, but that is no less reason to fight it."

"I will fight it, father," said the boy, his gaze more serious and firm than a child's had any right to be. "No greater enemy will it have than Eorl, son of Léod."

Léod ruffled Eorl's hair proudly. "I believe you, my son."

o-o

"This _cannot_ be borne!"

The cramped earthen hall fell silent as Thráin II, King of Durin's Folk, spoke at last.

Not a word, not a sound had passed his lips for seven days, no food either. He had not slept, and he had not wept, in the seven days since Nár had brought word of his father's death. Instead, he had sat, his eyes locked upon the small purse of gold coins held within the palm of his hand..

Thrór, King of Durin's Folk, the last King under the Mountain, had been killed within the very halls of Khazad-dûm, his head severed from his body and thrown out to Nár where he had waited. Upon his bloodied brow, a name had been hewn into his very flesh. Azog. The same Azog had then thrown the same purse of coins that now rested in the King's palm. Weregild for the beggar King.

"This… this insult. This affront most vile. This murder." The King set aside the purse and stood up slowly, with all the implacability of continents. "Orcs, beasts in all but name, sully the halls of our fathers, and grandfathers. Their filth runs across our floors, over the floors once walked by Durin the Deathless himself. But that, even that, can be borne, and we have borne it, for our sons. Or our sins."

He looked out over the ragged few of his people who still managed to fill the dark chamber that had been scratched out beneath one of the boneless hills of Dunland. "But this? _This_ cannot be borne."

"My father is slain. Your King. Murdered in the very Halls of Durin by an _Orc_. His body consumed by them, and his head defiled and left for the crows to squabble over." The King began walking towards the centre of the room, leaving behind his petty throne. "It is too much. Too much has been lost to beasts. Too many holds, too many lives. Erebor, lost to the fire and flame of Smaug, Gundabad, long overrun by Orcs, and Khazad-dûm, defiled, and reduced to a black pit, crawling with filth. I say enough. I say it cannot be borne."

He reached the hearth, his axe resting against a bench that ran alongside. It was a simple thing, and by its look it did not seem that it would belong to a King, but the Kings of Durin's Folk knew the worth of a weapon without undue ostentation. "The world thinks we are spent after the loss of Erebor, that we cower here in our ignoble halls, content to let the slow death come for our people.

"But we are not spent." His fingers closed around the axe's familiar hilt.

"Let the word go out," he said, his voice gaining strength with every word. "Let the Broadbeams and Firebeards know this insult. Let the Ironfists and the Stiffbeards hear that a great council shall be called, as it was in ages past. Let the Blacklocks, and the Stonefoots see that the Misty Mountains will run with Orc blood."

With each statement, the Hall shook with the returned cries of those gathered there. Thráin raised his axe high, its blade glinting red in the firelight. "Let all the Houses of the Dwarves know that Durin's Folk will march! The axes of the dwarves will cleanse the halls of our forefathers! "

All those present roared their approval. Fists, axes and tankards, all were held aloft, and dust and earth fell from the ceiling so loud were their shouts.

Thráin waited for the shouts to quieten before he continued. "Let all who have heard this go forth from here with a message. Bear it to any among our Kin whom you can find. Bear it to the Horse Lords of the Broad Valley. Bear it to the Dúnedain of the North, and the Green-men of the South. Bear it even to the realm of Gondor by the Shadow. The Misty Mountains shall be scoured clean. No hall will be left unclaimed. No cave be left unpurged. No dark hole unlaved. Not a crack or crevice will remain to Azog, the defiler, and his ilk. Then our people will be avenged, and our fathers might finally find rest."

Then, from the shadows near the edge of the hall, a man stepped out. He was much taller than any Dwarf, and yet he had passed unnoticed among them, and unremarked. About his shoulders was a heavy travelling cloak of Dwarvish make, muddied and frayed at the edges from long journey through the wilderness. His head and face were hidden by the hood of his cloak, but all who looked upon him knew who he was.

For in his hand was the fabled staff of silver and stone, and upon his hip hung a black sword, which it was said would suffer no sheath.

"Thrór was long a friend to me," he said. His voice was soft, quiet enough that it had no business being heard in the busy Hall, and yet there were none who did not hear it. "His death is a tragedy. But it is only the most recent of many. The Misty Mountain passes are no longer safe, even for well guarded caravans. With each year the number of raiding parties increases and few places in the North are safe now.

"This war, when it comes, will not be a war of just Dwarves and Orcs. No, the Éothéod will surely join you if you would have them. The Dúnedain too, for Golfimbul is still recent in their memory. Even the Elves have been wronged. If not for blessed luck, the Lady of Imladris might have been felled by the blades of the Orcs." The figure then drew his black blade, which he thrust into the earth.

"And I. If you will have it, King Thráin, I will lend you my sword too, until the Orcs are driven from your homes."

Another Dwarf stepped forward, and bowed so low that his scraggly gray beard brushed the loamy floor. "Where are we to muster our forces, my King?"

The King was silent for a moment, before his eyes returned to the cloaked figure, though he raised his voice to address all those who were gathered in his hall. "Dubanu-id-durj. From there, once our might is gathered, we march on Gundabad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter represents a very significant time-skip, and separates the first and second primary arcs of the story. The time skip takes us from around the year 2000 to 2790 of the Third Age, and the first stirrings of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs.
> 
> There's really nothing that needs to be pointed out at the moment, I think. Only that the stories being told by Léod to Eorl may have some amount of artistic license added in their retelling. After-all, nearly 500 years has passed since the events in Léod's story.
> 
> All characters are canon. Eorl is, in the canon timeline at least, the founder of Rohan, and the reason why they are often called the Eorlingas.
> 
> Thráin is the son of Thrór, and the father of Thorin of 'The Hobbit' fame. We're finally getting into some more familiar territory... but how familiar is it with the changes Harry has unknowingly wrought?


	27. Until Wars Began Anew

A fire burned in the centre of a long, fur-lined tent. Styled akin to one of the long barrow-halls of Durin's folk, the smoke of the fire was breathed out into a clear night through the stove-hole above. Beside the fire, lit more by its lively red light than by the flickering candles set all across its surface, was a table strewn with maps and letters. Gathered around the table were a dozen Dwarves, each locked into their own private arguments with those nearest. At the entrance to the tent Harry sat quietly, wrapped in warm shadows and content merely to listen.

"Why do we continue to wait?" said Náin of Iron Hills, his deep voice rumbling across the war-table and drawing the attention of all those gathered. He was broad-shouldered, with a long woven beard of mixed russet and grey. At his side his young son Dáin nodded as Náin added, "By the latest count we are more than five thousands, able Dwarves all. No goblin-host could ever hope to stand against us!"

"More allies have we than just Dwarves," said Fundin, his words carefully measured. For many long years he had been a trusted advisor to King Thrór, and now he was steward to King Thráin. His long grey beard was carefully styled and his clothes were fine, setting him apart from many of the other Dwarves at the table. "King Haleth himself rides to join us with a host of twelve hundred, every man among them mounted and armed for war. He is but a scant few days hence, what cost to us a few more days if it means we gain so many swords?"

"Days you say," said Náin, as he beat his fist upon the table between them, "yet days fall upon days and soon it is not the days that mount, but weeks. We have been camped here since Anvil Moon and still we have not marched. Days you say! When at last this King of Men arrives what then I wonder? Would you then have us wait for the Elves to bestir themselves too?"

From the assembled Dwarves gathered about the war-table there was much grumbling and muttering. 'Zakafsun id-'uzghu duluz bark 'uglakh mi zirik Mebelkhags', they said quietly to each other. In war, better a dull axe than a sharp Elf.

"What use have we for these horse lords anyway?" asked Nari of the Firebeards, the words coming from behind the huge bush of a beard that had seen him named the Redbeard among his folk. "The goblins are weeds, and will not fight us upon an open field. We must root them out, under earth and through stone. The horses of Men will not bear them into their foul tunnels."

"Then have them dismount when it comes to that," said Harry, choosing that moment to remind them of his presence. "They are not joined to their horses at birth. Their valour is just as great whether upon the ground, or upon horseback. Are you so sure of our victory that you would turn away more than a thousand swords, spears, and bows?"

"They are untried," said Nari firmly. "A sword needs only a single weak point for it to shatter in direst need. Men have valour, that I do not doubt, but they are fickle as pig iron compared to a good solid Dwarvish steel."

"Untried? No, not untried." said Harry, his voice level and sure. As Saruman was oft taken to say, it was surety of voice that most swayed a stubborn Dwarf, more-so than sense it spoke. "Do you think the goblins you seek have been idle in their stolen holds? They have been a plague on all the good people of the north. It has only been 50 years since Golfimbul led his hosts into Eriador, and scarcely a year passes without another raiding party descending from the mountains into either Eriador or the Riddermark. They have been tried, of that you may be assured. Those that have been tried in such a way and found wanting will are seldom fit for a march such as this."

"Enough!" said Thráin, his voice cutting off Nari's next protest, and earning him an angry glare. "Harry has the right of it. We have not so many swords that we can afford to turn willing soldiers away. Too long have we let the goblins multiply within our holds uncontested. If we are one Dwarf against one hundred then I fear we will have been lucky."

"A true Dwarf warrior is worth two hundred goblins!" Náin thumped his fist upon the table and his words were followed by the grumbled agreement of the other Dwarves around the table.

"And when there are two hundred and one?" asked Thorin, the young son of Thráin, and barely grown into his beard.

Harry shook his head as the argument descended into little more than chest-beating and name calling. At least he could be sure that their coalition would not likely be on the move until after the men of the Riddermark had arrived. Without a further word, and unnoticed by any in the tent save perhaps the ever-observant Fundin, Harry ducked through the flaps and into the moonlit night beyond.

The camp was a large one, and stretched all the way across the Valley outside the Hold of Abzâgu id-Uslukh, often still called Scatha's Den by the Men who came there to trade. The host had been gathering there since Thráin's proclamation months ago, and the muddy earth told the tale well.

Everywhere Harry looked, Dwarves were making themselves busy. No matter the hour, the camp was awash with noise and activity. Dwarves of every Clan and stripe had come, from the Blue Mountains to the Red. The valley was filled with the endless clamour of an army making ready to march to war. The ringing of hammers, the clash of steel, the fire and smoke of a dozen hastily erected forges; the valley, once so peaceful put Harry in mind of the desolation wrought by Scatha.

Yet, it was not so bad as that. The great forest, called Níweald by the men of the Riddermark to the south, was largely untouched by the gathering. It was oft said by the Elves that nothing could stop Dwarves from felling and burning all the woods of the world, if they could but mine the ore to make it worth their while, but that was not at all true.

As a people, the Dwarves understood the value of limited resources, and the need to manage what wealth they did have with care. Wood had many more uses than merely being kindling for their ovens and forges. It could be used to prop and shore, to dam and reroute, to build and to repair. More important even than those, though, was the support a forest lent to the land above their delvings, as well as their property of improving drainage and reducing seepage. The forest of Níweald was carefully managed, and had been fastidiously protected even amid the gathering of Tháin's host.

What a host it was, too. Most numerous were Durin's Folk, who had in ages past resided in numerous holds throughout the Misty Mountains. The loss of Khazad-dûm, Erebor and many of their other ancestral holds had been hammer blows against the Clan that had once been the most powerful and most numerous of all the Clans of the Dwarves, but in the shadow of Scatha's Fall they showed that their might was not yet wholly spent.

Then there were the Firebeards and Broadbeams from the Blue Mountains to the west. Old allies of Durin's Folk, they too had answered King Thráin's call in great numbers. Least numerous were the Blacklocks, Stonefoots, Stiffbeards, and Ironfists, all of whom hailed from the far east, the Red Mountains or beyond.

It was a mustering of Dwarves the like of which had not been seen since the First Age. Soon their long preparations would be complete, their full numbers mustered, and their War would begin in earnest. Harry could see it in the eyes of every Dwarf he passed, they were ready.

If only Harry shared in that surety.

He had seen battle of course, and he had killed many foes in his time travelling the wilds of the world. Fights he had seen aplenty; even of battles, he had seen a few. War, though. War was not something he had experienced. Many of those grim-faced Dwarves with whom he shared meat and mead would be dead before the year was out. It didn't matter how ready they were, nor how grim their resolve. Many would die. That was the heartless truth of war.

How many halls would lie empty once the war was done? How many wives would be widows? How many children would be orphans?

There was little to be gained in thinking such dark thoughts, but they came to him nonetheless.

He made his way slowly through the camp, past countless tents and awnings. Wherever he walked the Dwarves would stop in their tasks for a moment to watch his passing. Over the years, he had accumulated quite the myth.

A young Dwarf approached him hesitantly. His dark hair, and the way his short beard was braided marked him out as one of Durin's Folk. "Great Wizard," he said fearfully, his eyes never rising to meet Harry's own. "It is said that you offer boons to those whom you favour."

There were many such tales, though Harry knew not from where they had come. Over the years, after crafting a working wand, he had tried to recapture the magic he'd learned in his nearly forgotten youth. He'd found that those simple spells tended to fade quickly, though he knew not if that was due to his poor recall of the lessons so many years in his past, or if it was some other factor. Perhaps his wand, made from the heartstrings of such a singularly selfish creature as Scatha had been, did not approve of lending protection to others.

He still had so much left to learn. His wand lent him power unlike anything the normal folk of Middle-earth had ever seen, and yet Harry still poorly understood the gift he'd been granted. Even after so many years, he felt as if he was working from gut intuition and instinct.

There were no writings on the subject of magic to be found anywhere in Middle-earth, not the true magic. The Men of Middle-earth seldom felt its influence, and seemed unaware of its presence in the world around them. The Dwarves could feel it, but they could not see it and so they worked almost blindly to mould it to their will. The Wise among the Elves, on the other hand could see it all around them, but to them it was so clear and obvious that explaining it was like trying to describe colour to one born without sight.

So Harry had been left to find his own way. And he had found the wand so very easy, and yet at the same time he often found it wanting.

"Is that what they say?" said Harry, making little effort to hide his amusement at the Dwarf's nervousness.

He pulled out his wand. For the most part, it was still as rough as it had been on the day he'd created it, though the years had softened its edges to a smoothly rounded shine. The once intentional change, was a small amount of mithril filigree around the grip, which swirled out along the length in gossamer-thin strands. A gift from the Dwarves for reclaiming one of their lost holds.

"Uava askatä" he said as he tapped the Dwarf's hauberk with the tip of his wand. A pearl of light crept along the mithril strands of his wand before spreading out over the piece of armour. A web pale light criss-crossed the metal, shining like dew in the dawning sun before fading back to nothing.

Perhaps it wasn't much, but it surely meant he would be better protected than he might otherwise have been.

"Khamnêl," said the Dwarf, as he bowed as low as he could manage. As soon as he pulled himself upright, he retreated, melting back into the bustling camp.

Harry looked around and found that he was being watched by many sets of interested eyes which immediately turned away rather than meet his gaze. It was a reaction to which Harry had become sadly accustomed. He continued on his way, and did his best to ignore the many sets of eyes that followed his passage.

It didn't take long to reach the edge of the woods that gave the valley its name. In the years since Scatha had died, life had returned to the once-barren valley and filled it nearly to the brim. As he had taken to doing regularly since his return to the Valley, Harry made his way into the trees, and started a short climb to an overlook that protruded from the valley side.

Far he had travelled, along roads long forgotten by men. He had seen all manner of peoples, and trod the streets of a hundred cities. From the crumbling greatness of Osgiliath to its last proud remnants in Minas Tirith. He had seen the sandy streets of Ar-Pharazos, where hundreds of men and women died every day under the whips of their cruel masters, and the quiet serenity of Caras Galadhon. He had walked the benighted halls of Khazad-dûm, and the forgotten green avenues of Cuiviénen.

Everywhere he had been, he felt like a man apart. Like there was some wall of thought between him and all others. Always visiting, never home. More people than he could hope to remember had passed, fleeting, through his life. Only the Elves persisted, and even they would not remain in Middle-earth forever. With each passing year, with each fallen leaf and each felled tree, they felt more distant from the Middle-earth they had so long called their home.

One day even Lord Elrond would grow tired of Middle-earth, and with him would go his family, and his household, and all that would remain would be the quiet ruins of his once-homely house, slowly being reclaimed by the wilds.

That realisation had come to him a great many years earlier, and since that day he had stepped seldom into the hidden valley. Solitude was easier. He had lost everything once before, and that was a pain he did not wish to experience a second time.

He took a seat, cross-legged upon the dew-wet grass, and closed his eyes. All around, the quiet sounds of forest life filled the clear air. A gentle evening wind rustled through the quiet canopy. Harry sat back, and let his mind drift upon the breeze. His thoughts, unfettered by the merely physical, climbed the smooth silvery bark of the surrounding birches, high into the treetops, lit by uncountable stars and a bright silver moon.

As his horizons expanded, so too did his senses, unto the edges of the wood in the lower valley. All who came and went beneath the boughs, he could feel. From the smallest shrew to the great bear that had descended from the high mountains in search of food after a long winter hibernation.

It was a technique he'd learned years ago from the Lady Galadriel when he had at last come to meet her in Lothlórien. Whatever expectations he'd had of one held in such high esteem by all who knew her, she had met them, and exceeded them.

Where Lord Celeborn was wise, with such a calming bearing that it bled into all those in his presence, Lady Galadriel was something else. She was no doubt wise beyond any reckoning of Men, but that was not the first thing anyone noticed in her presence. It was the fire she possessed that truly set her apart. Dwarves often said that Elves would proudly proclaim the power and beauty of their own shits if the world would but give them the audience they so craved and, after coming to know Lady Galadriel, Harry could see why they might think that.

She stood tall and proud even among her brethren, like one of her favored mallorns amid a forest of pines. None upon whom she gazed could avoid the feeling of being assessed, their deepest secrets seemingly exposed to her gaze. It was a sensation completely unlike any Legilimency Harry had ever experienced, as it demanded nothing of the one she was gazing upon.

She merely asked, mind to mind, the questions that all men ask themselves in their darker moments, and waited patiently for a reply. She did not sneak nor creep; she did not berate nor steal. She watched, and asked, and listened, and knew. It could be a terrifying experience for one unaccustomed to self-doubt but such questions had long been Harry's companions on dark nights, when only the stars overhead could offer their distant company.

So many years had passed, and yet the shadows of Angmar haunted him still. Sometimes he wondered if he had ever, would ever truly escape from its influence. A prison of the mind more so than of the body. Or maybe a prison of the soul. She had shown him how to find freedom. Called sanwe-latya in Quenya, it was a skill that had long fallen to disuse even among her own kind.

His mind flew upon unseen wings, between the currents of starlight.

The freedom was unlike anything else Harry had ever known, and yet even then he was contained. Beyond the boundaries of Níweald, his sight grew dim, as if a dark curtain of sheerest silk had been pulled over his eyes. Colour faded from the world, and shadows grew deeper until all was consumed by them and he had to turn back.

Even in the darkness beyond the valley, though, light could be found. He had to search for it blindly, casting about aimlessly amidst the gloom until he found it . A distant, flickering candle, was besieged within the darkness. To the south, no more than a day distant, he could feel the King's Company, maybe ten full Éoreds. Men were among the hardest to sense, and it was only the presence of Haleth among them that allowed Harry even the most limited sense of their presence.

They had stopped for the night, and in the wavering light of his distant mind, Harry could feel both his fatigue and apprehension. Haleth had been a strong warrior once, and had grown into a good King but age was a foe that could not be defeated through swordplay, nor could it be waylaid through cunning statecraft.

The King surely knew that this ride would be his last, one way of the other.

Harry's mind turned away, then, from the King, but before he returned to himself there was a flicker of something else at the edge of his mind.

He searched through the darkness, but it would not give up that for which he searched. It was not until he felt the warmth of the first rays of the morning sun upon his face that he returned to himself, atop his grassy outcrop.

It was a curious thing, perhaps, to feel so rested after spending so much of his night searching fruitlessly in the darkness for that flicker he'd felt. It had been just the merest suggestion, like a star reflected in shifting waters, but it had been familiar. He rose slowly to his feet. Rested, perhaps, but sitting cross legged was still no comfortable way to spend an appreciable count of hours. His clothing was damp from the morning dew, his long hair for once plastered flat to his head.

The news of Haleth's coming would surely be gratefully received by King Thráin. The wait would soon be over; the war would soon begin.

o-o

They arrived late in the evening that day. The golden hair of a thousand proud men gleaming like new fire in the last rays of the fading sunlight. The thunder of their horses announced their coming long before they came into sight, but Harry had felt them near even before that. As soon as they had entered the lower reaches of the valley, far below, he had known of their arrival.

King Thráin and his closest advisors awaited the arrival of their new allies, accompanied by an honour guard of their own. Harry had counselled that such posturing would be unnecessary, but Náin of Ironhills, cousin to Thráin, would not hear of it. No King of Durin's Folk would meet a group so large, and so heavily armed, without an escort of his own. Orcs, he said, had long experience in the arts of deception.

And so it was that the two Kings came to meet. Haleth rode at the head of his own éored, every one among them resplendent in the green and white of the House of Eorl. Beside Haleth rode a tall, powerful-looking man bearing the great banner of the Riddermark, a great stag in white and gold, rampant upon a field of green. As he rode, it flicked and snapped in the passing wind, and captured within it some of the sun's fading radiance.

"King Thráin!" cried Haleth. His hair was thinning, and long turned to grey, but in his voice there was yet a memory of the strength of his youth. "The Riddermark has come to answer an ally's call."

Náin scoffed under his breath, quietly enough that none outside Thráin's retinue was able to hear. Nonetheless, he was silenced by a harsh glance from his king.

"And gratefully do we receive it, King Haleth," said Fundin, standing forward to speak for Thráin. "My King bids I invite you and your Lords to his tent to discuss strategies for the coming war."

Haleth dismounted before the Dwarvish contingent, and his banner bearer did the same after handing the standard to another man.

"My men are weary, and our horses are tired," said Haleth though even Harry found it hard to sense any weariness in the man, despite the long ride, and his longer years.

King Thráin stepped forward then. "Fundin, my steward, will see to their needs," he said in a voice laced with far more diplomacy than he ordinarily employed when addressing his own people. "It is good of you to have answered my call, Haleth, King. Should this war go well, then my people shall owe yours a debt."

"There can be no debts between brothers," said Haleth firmly. "And all those who shed blood with me upon the field are my brothers, so let us talk not of debts! I met your father, once when I was but a boy, and I came with my father to your great Kingdom at Erebor. I was greatly saddened to hear of his passing, and angered to hear of its manner. We met only briefly, for I was little more than a child, but he was kind to me."

Thráin extended an arm for Haleth to take, which he did. They greeted each other then as friends, with a strong clasp. "Better days were those," said Thráin sadly. It had been twenty-three years since the last of the great worms had taken Erebor for his own and become known to all in the north as Smaug the Golden, but the years did not dim their pain.

"Aye," said Haleth. "Better days indeed."

Smaug's arrival had not only meant the end of the Kingdom under the Mountain, but also the burning of Dale, once the second city of the Riddermark, and the meeting point for trade from East and West. Since its fall, trade from the East had all but stopped. Without the strength of Dale nearby to protect the roads, they had become infested with Orcs and other bandits.

At that moment, a stirr went through the assembled Dwarves, as some more riders approached. Fine were the horses of the Éotheod; among the horses of Men they had no equal, but the horses that neared were of no Mannish variety.

Bitless and without saddle their masters rode, for they were Elf steeds and needed no tack. Harry recognised the riders that led the group immediately.

"Elladan, Elrohir!" he cried out happily. It had been a long span of yours since last he had set eyes upon the sons of Elrond. Behind them, at a respectful distance, rode Daewen atop her own blue roan, and beside her was Haldir, who had long maintained the watch on the East Gate of Moria.

With them rode near a hundred of their brethren, all garbed in the olive-green travelling robes of their people, and each armed with both bow and knife.

"What is this!" said Náin, stepping forward, and flanked by the King's guard. "What business do Elves so armed have with the King of Durin's Folk?"

"We bear a message from Lord Elrond, and the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood," said Elladan, as the company came to a graceful halt with not a word of command issued.

"Mebelkhags galabî harb galdul," Náin muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Adrib!" said Thráin harshly to his cousin, silencing him. He turned back to the sons of Elrond. "I would hear your message."

Harry knew that the sons of Elrond understood every word that had been said, but if they took offense, they gave no sign.

"The old alliance is withered, but not yet forgotten," said Elladan. "Once, Elf, Dwarf, and Man lived side by side, worked together, and fought united. Those days are long passed, and much has since come between us, but there are still those among us who would choose to remember them, and honour them."

"Those you see here came by their own choice," said Elrohir, sweeping his arm around in a gesture that encompassed all of the Elvish company. "They were not commanded to come, but come they have, nevertheless. We have, for the first time in a great count of years, left our home behind, so that we might help you return to yours."

His statement did not go down as well as he had surely hoped. Harry heard much grumbling from the assembled Dwarves, and from one closer to him he heard, "Dezeb ud' amsâltharr." Diamonds from quartz, the Dwarves had little time for grand words that they did not believe were merited.

Thráin, at least, remained somewhat gracious. "Your words are noble, Mahalbâha," he said. It was no glowing expression of gratitude, for he was thanking them only for the words, and not for any action on their part, but Harry took some hope from the fact that the King had at least used a respectful form of address. He had to walk a tightrope between the approval of his people, who were ever prickly to the perceived slights committed by the Elves, and regard of potential allies who had come, unlooked-for, to assist them.

"Come, then," said Thráin to both of his new allies. "There is much that must be discussed before we can march."

Then, together, they went to the King's tent, and their hosts dismounted, and started setting their own encampments upon the borders of the Dwarves' own. Harry was about to follow when Daewen approached him, a look of some apprehension upon her face.

"It is good to see you again, my friend," she said, and when she spoke the doubt was gone from her eyes, and they showed only honest good cheer. "It has been too long since last you visited the Halls of my Lord."

Harry could not help but smile. She was right, it had been far too long. She was, in truth, probably his oldest friend. He had denied that truth for many years. It was not until he had at last been able to locate the Witch King, and when they had joined in battle beneath the tainted walls of Minas Ithil, now long called Morgul by those who dwelt beneath its shadow, that he came to accept the truth.

His old friends were lost to him. Perhaps they would not be sundered forever, but even if their reunion should come, on some far-off day, they would no longer be the people he'd once loved. Even if, by some incredible chance, he was able to return to the very moment from whence he had left, he would not be the same person who had once loved them. They were ships at sea, once parted and never to be reunited.

"Too long indeed," he said, as the broad smile spread across his face. "It does me good to see you looking so well!"

"We in Imladris have heard much of your travels," she said, before her expression dropped. "Yet we have heard little of you for a great count of years. Mithrandir has come and gone more times than I care to count. Radagast too, has visited perhaps a handful of times. Even Saruman has bestirred himself from that tower of his, and yet of you we hear only tales."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Old friend she may be, but long years of separation meant that they were not so close that he felt he could confide in her. In truth, he had no such friend. Men, it seemed, were little more than brilliant fleeting moments in time. Strong, wise, beautiful in their time, and yet that time was so very short. He had known Haleth as a child, as a young warrior, and as a frail king; as he had known his father, and his grandfather before him.

Dwarves were a little less brief, but they usually kept to themselves. They were respectful, and dutiful in their regard towards him but rarely did they treat him as anything other than an honoured friend of their people. In all the long years he'd been travelling Middle-earth, he had known only two Dwarves by their nakhrâm, their inner-name, and both had died many years past.

Their loss was a pain that Harry carried with him every day.

The Elves, though, did not grow old. The world turned around them, and ages passed them by as they looked on, unchanged, their beauty never marred. Yet Harry had come to avoid them. "Imladris is too peaceful," said Harry, choosing not to voice the true reasons behind his absence. "I find myself growing restless when I so much as draw near."

He was grateful, then, that the Elvish company did not include Elrond, or Celeborn for they would have seen through his poor lies in mere moments. Daewen, looked doubtful, but she nodded her head in reluctant acceptance. Perhaps she had her suspicions, but she was a good enough friend to know when such things should be left unvoiced.

"I too come bearing a message," said Daewen, choosing to move the subject on to easier fare.

"From Lord Elrond?" said Harry. If the Lord of Imladris had some insight, it was always wise to listen. He started walking in the direction of King Thráin's tent, he had left Elladan and Elrohir too long in the sole company of Dwarves already.

"I think there is such a message, but it is not carried by me," she said, as she walked at his side. There was something comfortingly familiar about it. "I bear a message from Lady Arwen."

Harry kept up his steady pace, but he glanced across at his companion. She was watching him closely.

"It is no exciting message, in truth," she admitted. "She merely wishes to know why it is that you have so long scorned the warmth of Imladris, and the comforts of Caras Galadhon. She says you are a much more pleasing visitor than Mithrandir, and with far more exciting stories."

That would not be a hard thing to achieve. Mithrandir was a curious sort of fellow. He possessed an unassuming bearing which served to veil a powerful mind, and formidable wisdom. Saruman, on those occasions when he had call to speak on his fellow Istari, wavered between frustration and respect, for the man was prone to disappearing on self-imposed quests, only to reappear months or even years later.

They were nearing the tent, and from it Harry could hear the powerful, raised voice of Nari. It seemed his presence would be required. Daewen was still watching him, waiting for some kind of answer.

"Then perhaps I should pay a visit to Imladris, once all this is done," he said, choosing to defer his answer to a later date. "If only to relieve the boredom of your unfortunate kin."

He pushed his way into the tent, and into what was possibly intended to be a dry-run of the battles ahead, if the clamour of voices was anything by which it could be judged. As he stepped into the war, long awaited, he heard Daewen laughing merrily behind him. His joke hadn't been all that funny, but he found that he'd missed the sound of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the beginning of the next arc (of which this story was originally intended to have three). It will cover much of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, which has started for the same reason as in canon, the killing of Thrór, father of Thráin. It is the war that ended, in canon, with the Battle of Azanulbizar, outside Khazad-dum, the battle kinda shown in a flashback in the Hobbit movie.
> 
> With regards to names and language, there are a few things.
> 
> 'Zakafsun id-'uzghu duluz bark 'uglakh mi zirik Mebelkhags.' is a proverb I have concocted, and Harry's translation is correct
> 
> 'Mebelkhags galabî harb galdul' is another concocted proverb, meaning 'the words of an Elf are mud', in this case mud has the secondary meaning of 'unreliable'.
> 
> 'Adrib' simply means 'silence'.
> 
> 'Mahalbâha' is a more respectful way of referring specifically to Noldorin Elves, which in the case of Elladan and Elrohir is a possibly correct, or possibly incorrect depending on how you count things. Their mother is mixed Sinda/Noldo(/hint of Vanya, In this story, Celeborn is taken as being Sindar), while their father is mixed Noldo/Sinda, depending on how you count Half-Elves. Basically, it's complicated, and Thráin didn't think about all that. Elrond is de-facto leader of the Noldor following the death of Gil-Galad, so that's how he's addressed here.
> 
> Some may have noticed that Rohan isn't where it should be. Due to knock-on effects of Harry's presence, Eorl never needed to ride south to Gondor's aid, and so he established his Kingdom in the Vales of the Anduin, further north than canon Rohan. It is also not referred to as 'Rohan', as that was the name given to it by Gondor (in Sindarin), while they generally used 'Riddermark', or just 'The Mark' internally. Technically it's more complicated than that, as 'Riddermark' is actually meant to be a translation from the native Rohirric word 'Lōgrad' meaning the same thing (Land of the Riders), but to keep things relatively comprehensible I will be retaining the name 'Riddermark' for simplicity.


	28. Alliances Forged, Friendships Renewed

Harry entered the tent to find that the war-council had already commenced. Little consideration had been given to the long, hard ride King Haleth and his company had made, and instead the oft-unruly Dwarf Lords had returned to their old arguments.

"I still say we should move on Mount Gundabad with all haste," said Náin firmly. As he spoke he pointed at the worn and stained map that was spread across the table. "That has been our plan since the beginning, and for good reason."

"Taking the birthplace of our people would be a powerful message," said Fundin. A few of those about the table agreed with him, but some looked less convinced. "It would be good for morale, and perhaps it would even see our forces grow larger, once word of the victory spreads."

"A message, yes, but little more," said Nari, speaking up for those who had stayed silent. "Gundabad has little wealth to be found within its mines, but who knows how far and how deep the wretched Orcs have burrowed. We have little enough hope of making it secure if we do take it, and in truth there is little reason to try. Better we make for Inlêkh-dûm, the silver mines there are still rich, and the valley once fed half the Northern Mountains."

"The valley at Inlêkh-dûm is wide and flat," said Haleth, his pronunciation of the Dwarvish name sounded rough. He, like most Men, could neither speak nor understand the tongue, and those few names he knew in Khuzdul sounded rough and unpracticed. He was bent and tired from the long ride, but despite that his voice remained strong. Surrounded by many unfamiliar faces, some choosing to speak unfamiliar tongues, still he was uncowed. "Our cavalry would be much better suited to a battle upon that terrain than the bare rock of Mount Gundabad."

"Gundabad is home to more Orcs than anywhere save Khazad-dûm. We cannot leave such a force at our back as we march south," said Fundin, after the briefest of glances at his King.

"Not only that, but leaving it untouched would leave the Grey Mountains nigh undefended. If they did not march south to meet us in battle, they could instead raid east as far as the Iron Hills," said Náin. He was the son of Grór, the Lord of the Iron Hills, and he would surely never countenance a course of action that might place his own people in the sights of Gundabad's frequent raiding parties.

"Gundabad has raided those lands for many years," said Nari, waving off the concern. "They will hold, and we will be able to take back our riches while they are occupied."

Since the sinking of Beleriand, and the loss of both Nogrod and Belegost in ages past, many of the Broadbeams and Firebeards had lived among the Longbeards in the Misty Mountains. In many places, the three clans had mixed without contention, but there were a few holds that had been the province of Firebeards or Broadbeams alone. It was not lost on those present that Inlêkh-dûm, which Nari was so desperate to retake, had once been home to the Firebeards alone. In the days before their fall, only Khazad-dûm itself had hosted more of his clan, for it was often said to be the true home of all Dwarves.

"If I did not know better, I might think you a coward," said Náin as he thumped the table hard enough that the candles placed upon it flickered and wobbled. "Why else would you suggest leaving my people vulnerable to attack for no more reason than to line your pockets!"

That insult was not well received by Nari and his closer kin. "Coward!" cried Nari, as he too beat his fist upon the table. He stood to his full height, near three inches taller than Náin, and glared into his eyes. "I might strike you for that, if your fool's head wasn't so dense that it might chip my axe."

Harry raised his voice, cutting through the argument before it could devolve further. "Inlêkh-dûm is strong, but it is not so defensible when surrounded by enemy territory. Its fields were once rich, yes, but they aid us not if our entire army is needed there to defend them. It cannot hold out alone when the army must move on."

"It would also surely be weeks before the mines could be reopened, and months at best before the fields yield crop," said Elladan. Harry was grateful for the support, but there was a chance that the endorsement of an Elf would only hurt his argument.

"Makhsûn has the right of it," said Thráin. His words immediately served to silence any who might have taken issue with Elladan's words, even if he did not acknowledge them directly, the meaning was not lost on those present. So long as the Elves aided his people, Thráin would brook no insult to them. "The Misty Mountains are thick with the foul Orcs, and our only chance is to fall upon them like a wave, and cleanse the mountains from North to South, hold by hold."

"That will be no short war," said Nari.

"It is a war that has already been waged for generations," said Harry. This time it was his statement that was followed by a rumble of agreement from all about the table. "What is a few more months or years if it sees it ended for good?"

"For good, he says!" Nari cried. "That is a far-off day indeed, even if all the hosts of Dwarves, Men and Elves fell upon them they would soon creep back into the unwatched shadows and unguarded deeps. Sometimes it seems as if the very dank beneath the earth is what breeds them."

"They can creep all they wish," said Harry, "but if the old forts can be made fast again, it will be many years before they can be anything more than a passing nuisance." Orcs had long been common in the Misty Mountains, but only after the fall of Khazad-dûm had they truly been able to grow in number. Gundabad had long been their haven, but the sheer size and security of Khazad-dûm had allowed them to breed unchecked. Over the years almost every hold had been lost to them, trapped between Gundabad in the north, and Khazad-dûm in the south.

"In any event, it matters not whether the war we fight today will be the last," said Fundin. "What matters is that it is a war we cannot afford not to fight. Our people are being driven from their homes. It is a slow defeat, to be sure, but it is a defeat nonetheless. If we do not fight back then our people have no future."

"We have long watched the mountain passes grow more and more dangerous," said Elrohir. "All those who live in the shadow of the Misty Mountains have felt the rising power of the Orcs who now dwell there. If they are not stopped, then all peoples, be they west of the mountains or east, will be under their dominion, or the dominion of their dark master."

"So you'd use honest Dwarf blood to fend them off?" Nari asked. "I counted few indeed of your Kin with you, Elf. It does not take Hanar the Farsighted to see what value Dwarf blood is when weighed against that of your own people."

"Lest you have forgotten, Nari," said Thráin, electing to once again make his voice known, "this war was by our choice, and ours alone. Those few Elves who have come were unlooked for allies, as where King Haleth and his companions. I caution you to remember that."

"Zagru thikîl ra khelêd zûyothur jalâkruf," said Nari to the Dwarf next to him, barely bothering to lower his voice.

It was another old saying, 'a sword of steel and glass will still shatter', and it got some chuckles from a few of the other Dwarves around the table, but they were soon quieted by Thráin's steely look. Nari leaned back, away from the table, satisfied that he'd said his piece.

"Gundabad must be our first test," said Thráin with an air of finality. "We must hit them hard there, where they think they are strongest. Then the rest of the war will be little more than bloody house-keeping, for if they cannot weather this storm in Gundabad, where could they? Save, perhaps, Khazad-dûm itself."

All those gathered around the table nodded, even Nari, though Haleth looked troubled.

"I still fear that my men may be wasted upon the rocky ground that is all about Gundabad," he said. He had gathered his people for the chance at glory and justice for the fallen, he surely wouldn't allow them to be sidelined in the battles to come. "Among the horses of our host, only mine own Gruncryt could travel across such broken terrain. Any other horse would surely be left lame should they attempt it."

"There is the Makallurs-buzrû not altogether far from the Mountain," said Elladan. His use of the Dwarvish name for that place drew curious glances from all the others who were gathered there. It was strange indeed for any but the most learned Loremasters amongst the elves to speak words in Khuzdul, so strange were the sounds to their tongues, but he was one of the children of Elrond. The pronunciation was not wholly without error, for even Elrond had had little call to use the language over the years, but the very attempt was in itself noteworthy. He continued, "The plain there is broad and flat, and suitable for horses."

"That's of little help to us," said Nari. For the first time since Elrond's sons had arrived, he was looking at them without open hostility. "Even Orcs would not meet us in battle there. They would be too exposed, and too distant from the mountain to be able to retreat. You can always count on the cowardice of Orcs."

There was grumbling from all about the table as many of the others accepted the truth of his words.

"They are cowards, yes, but they are also prone to overconfidence," said Harry. He was no man of great military acumen, for the free-peoples of Middle-earth did not easily go to war, but he knew the value of Haleth's forces, even if the Dwarves did not wish to see it. He could not allow them to be wasted without good reason. "What if we could bait them into meeting us upon the plains? We could offer them some prize that they could not resist."

"What prize have we that they would covet so?" asked Fundin, his bushy brows furrowed as he considered the idea.

"Gold," said Harry immediately. "Gems. Silver. Anything shiny that might catch their eye."

"Where would we find such a grand hoard?" asked Nari.

Harry shook his head. "We need not truly have it," he said. "It is only necessary that it look like we do. By my own abilities, I could alter common rocks to give them the appearance of gold or some other riches. It would not be true gold, nor would it last all that long, but perhaps it could last long enough."

"Perhaps it would work, but only if the sham gold was near-perfect," Thráin mused. He stroked his beard and was staring, unseeing, into the candle before him. "They have sharp eyes, even in darkness. We would have to keep them distant enough that they could not see the deception. If your deception ended before their army marched out to meet us, it would be clear what we had planned."

"Their eyes may be sharp," said Elladan, "but I warrant that ours are sharper. Any who try to come close would soon find themselves dead by our arrows." Even Nari would not choose to argue with that. The eyesight of Elves put even hawks to shame, and the accuracy of their bows was well known.

"What is your plan, then?" said Nari, voicing the growing interest of all those who were gathered around the table.

"It will surely need much alteration," said Harry as he looked around the table to meet the eyes of all who were gathered there, "but in its essence, it is this. We leave a small force, just within easy striking range of Gundabad, and laden down with riches and other spoils. Surely the Orcs will not be able to resist such an opportunity to pillage, and will pour forth from the Mountain in their full numbers. None among them would wish to miss out on such an opportunity. Then, once they are out and upon the open field, we charge them with our mounted force and put them to flight."

"There is much there that needs more time to consider," said Thráin thoughtfully, "but I can see the merit in such a plan. If we can get them to fight us upon the plain, there is little chance that they will be able to resist such a large mounted force."

"If we send a part of our strength behind the Orcs once they have marched out, we might be able to catch them on the retreat too," said Nari. The thought of such a victory had lit a fire behind his eyes.

"Such a plan is complex, with many moving parts," said Fundin. As ever, he was the voice of reason in their counsels. It was said by some that Fundin never so much as chose the weave of his beard without first considering all the possibilities. "Rarely can such complicated strategies be brought to fruition amid the chaos of battle. Merely communicating between our forces would be slow and prone to interruption."

"That would be true, for most," said Harry, "but not for us. I could easily use my magical crafts to ensure that messages are sent quickly between the hosts without fear of disruption. The simplest method would be to use fireworks of different colours to mark the different phases of the battle, but there are others. My magics would not even be needed for that. I am sure Nari has at least one among his company with knowledge of that craft."

"More than one, in fact," said Nari. It was clear that he was coming to like the idea more and more.

"If the problem of coordinating so many pieces can be solved, then perhaps the plan would be workable," said Fundin, though he still seemed doubtful. "It would sit easier with me, however, if we were not leaving a portion of our force alone and within reach of an Orcish attack. They would surely choose to attack in the night.

"If the plan worked, it would be a great victory," said Nari. "Those foul Orcs would not know which way to turn. There is little chance of them mounting any true defence once the trap has been sprung. They will be lost entirely to fear and panic."

"Even then, Fundin is right. The Orcs would only attack us in darkness," said Náin, choosing that moment to rejoin the conversation. "The plains are broad and open. Perfect for the horses, it is true, but would we be able to use them in darkness? Men have not the darksight of Dwarves."

"Men may not," said Haleth. Dwarves had little knowledge of the use of horses in war. Their hardy ponies were beasts of burden only. Of those present, perhaps only the sons of Elrond might be able to claim a greater knowledge of horse-lore than King Haleth. "But the horses do. If the moon was out, it would be best, but even on a cloudy night, we could trust the horses to find their way."

"I could perhaps create some ever-burning torches for your men," said Harry. He hadn't considered that problem, and so spoke the first idea that came to his mind. "They could even be lit with a word, so that they remain hidden until the trap is being sprung."

"Such torches would be a wonder," said Haleth with a grateful and deferential nod to Harry, "but they would certainly spook the horses. Their dark sight is much better than any Man's, but that also means that bright lights in darkness may blind them. Even the fireworks have me concerned, in truth. I think I have heard of them, and if they are as bright and loud as the stories say, the horses will surely not take to them well."

"In that case, perhaps it would be better to split into two only," said Náin, opting to return to an earlier part of the discussion. "The Orcs in Gundabad are surely numerous enough that they would not be able to resist attacking a force of less than six thousand. There would be no need of riches to bait them. Their hatred for us will be more than enough to see them charge straight into our trap. With only two forces, we would not need to be over concerned with communication." He pointed to a ridge that was noted on the map to run along much of the western side of the plains. "Durin's Shoulder would be more than enough cover for the cavalry, and if we could draw them back East a little, King Haleth should be able to ride them down from behind without them being any the wiser. At least, until their death was upon them."

"Only if they have no scouts," said Fundin, once again choosing to point out Náin's unspoken assumption. "If they find the horses in the woods upon the Shoulder then they would be in trouble."

Elladan leaned forward. "Then it will be our task to ensure that any scouts see only that which we need them to see. Our only concern then would be if they caught the scent of the horses. We must only make our move when the winds blow into the south. If we do that, they will have no way of knowing of the trap that is about to be sprung. If by some mischance they do make for the Shoulder, my people can screen the retreat of the cavalry."

"We also could see all that is happening in the battle below," said Elrohir, adding his own voice to support his brother. "There would be no difficulty in the coordination then."

"It could work," said Nari, as he eyed the brothers with a look of grudging respect. "I have never seen Gundabad for myself, but if the field is as the maps show it, then surely it would be a victory worthy of song!"

o-o

The host was on the move. Eight thousand Dwarves, the combined forces from all their houses, stamped their way slowly down the valley towards the Vale of the Anduin. From there, they would march West until they reached the mountains. Then would begin the climb.

Each of the houses of the Dwarves were easily recognisable to one who knew them. The Stonefoots and Blacklocks, small in number though they were amongst the host, were the loudest. They sang as they marched, and at the head of their small column their captain, Dwerin Stonehand, was accompanied by two younger Dwarves, each bearing with them a Carnyx. The great horns blared the Dwarvish challenge out across the land, proudly proclaiming the coming of the greatest Dwarf host of the age.

Behind them walked the most numerous clan, the Longbeards. Led by Thráin atop a sturdy pony they marched without the same fanfare as the Blacklocks and Stonefoots. They too did not march in silence. Beneath the thrumming beat of their regular steps there was a doleful hum that an onlooker did not so much hear as feel deep within their bones. It was the sound of a people who still mourned all of that which they had lost. They were accompanied by the boom of war-drums which told a different story: the long awaited vengeance was near.

At the rear of the column was a much less organised throng of Broadbeams and Firebeards, under the direct leadership of Nari the Redbeard. Mixed among them were all the thousands of carts and wains and pack animals that were needed to sustain such a force.

It was not only Dwarves who were on the march, however.

Upon each flank of the column, there rode the men of the Riddermark, and among them on shining white steeds rode a few Elves of Rivendell and Lothlórien. Towards the front of the column, not far from Thráin's retinue, Harry rode atop a pale Palomino mare. She was a gift from King Haleth, and a foal of his own Gruncryt. Felicis, Harry had chosen to name her. It was a distant memory of a different place and time, but as time went by, and he found more and more of that world slipping beyond his grasp, he clung ever more tightly to those last motes. The pale golden hue of her coat reminded him of that potion. Perhaps the name would bring them luck.

At his side rode Elladan and Elrohir both. Daewen rode ahead of the column alongside Haldir and a few of his people, their sharp eyes watchful for any shadowy figures watching for their passing.

None among the host had any doubt that the Orcs of the Misty Mountains had not learned of their great muster. It was likely that their spies were abroad, and they would want to follow the movements of the allied host as closely as they were able. The sharp eyes, and unfailing watchfulness of the Elves would surely make that an impossible task. With luck, their host would make Gundabad without its denizens knowing anything of the allies the Dwarves had managed to gather.

Despite his many travels, Harry had never seen Gundabad with his own eyes. It was the fabled place of awakening of Durin the First, the Deathless, the first King of the Longbeards, and the founder of Khazad-dûm. In the days before it had fallen to the Orcs, it had been a place held in reverence by all Dwarves, not just those among the Longbeards. He had always wished to see it, but it had long been a place that held far too much danger for one travelling alone.

Elladan and Elrohir had both seen it, though. Both before and after its fall to the Orcs. The sons of Elrond were much older than Harry, and had seen the world in different times. Unlike their father, they had inherited the wanderlust of their grand-father. Where Eärendil had been called to the sea, they were called to the land, and between them they had perhaps travelled every inch of the North, and nearly as widely in the world beyond. Only the slow rise of the tide of darkness had stayed their wanderings in latter days.

"What power is it that dwells in this valley?" Elladan asked as they passed beneath the final boughs of the forest that had grown up all across the lower reaches of the valley.

"This I wish to know also," said Elrohir with a nod, "and many of our kin besides. I overheard some among Haldir's command saying that they would like to return to this place once the war is done."

"They would return here rather than return to Lothlórien?" Harry asked. Lothlórien was a place of such beauty and incredible splendour that he could scarce find the words that might do it justice. The power of Lady Galadriel sustained the woods there, and lent them a majesty that could no longer be found in any other place in Middle-earth. Even Rivendell, timelessly beautiful as it was, held nothing of the grandeur of Lothlórien. Celeborn had once told Harry that it was but a memory of something far greater, but if that were the case, Harry knew not what that could have been.

"Such was my thought," said Elrohir as he turned to look back at the woods, "but I must admit, there is something to this place that I have never found anywhere else. Not so grand as Lórien, but there is a wild beauty to it, and without the darkness that often haunts the old forests of the world."

Of the great old forests that had once covered much of Middle-earth, there was little enough that remained. Mirkwood, once Greenwood the Great, was the largest among them, but it had long fallen under the shadow that had been cast upon it by the Necromancer in Dol Guldur.

Next greatest was Fangorn, home of the ancient Woses of myth. It was said that they could speak to the trees and command them. Woe became any who tried to cut their wood in that particular forest for, it was said, the trees protected their own. Harry had always been careful to keep his distance. The people that lived in the lands about it, led by any number of chieftains and petty lords, were fractious indeed. They often warred amongst themselves, and if they were not then they would instead raid into the lands of the Riddermark to their north, or Gondor to their south and east.

The only other remnant of the old forests could be found upon the borders of the Shire, a strange place where dwelled a short-statured and earthy people who called themselves 'Hobbits'. Still called the Old Forest by those who lived in its shadow, it had long ago become hostile to any who bore edged weapons beneath its boughs. Despite that, it was perhaps the forest that most resembled the woods of old.

"It was Rúmil, and a few other of those who remember the days before the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood came to dwell there, when it was still called Lórinand," said Elrohir. "He said it reminded him of those woods before Durin's Bane was awoken, when Amroth still ruled there, and Nimrodel yet dwelled beneath the shadow of the mountain."

Elladan was quiet, then, as he contemplated his brother's words. At last, he spoke. "That much, I can perhaps see," he admitted. "I saw little of those woods before the Mallorns were planted and our grandmother came to dwell there, and there is something here of the wildness that was once there, but I think there is something more to it."

"What spells did you place upon this land that has caused it to come into such verdure?" Elrohir asked. "For surely such a sense of place could only have been brought about by power such as is under the command of the White Council."

The White Council was something Harry heard much of in recent years. It was no new idea, for there had been a White Council long ago, during the Dark Years of Sauron's ascendancy before he was finally defeated by the Last Alliance, but it had been forgotten by most until the Lady Galadriel had summoned the greatest among the Wise to an historic council. Harry himself had been summoned for it, but had found himself awed by the company in which he'd found himself.

It had met a few times in the years since that first meeting, and Harry had rarely been in attendance. Instead, he visited Saruman in his holdfast at Isengard after each meeting to learn all of that which might be of importance to him. There was little of value he could contribute, when such great minds were gathered together, but he always made sure to heed their advice.

That was a large part of his reason for joining with the Dwarves in their War. The White Council had long watched, waited, and worried about the darkness growing both in the Misty Mountains and within the ruins of Dol Guldur. Too long had they watched, and waited, Harry had decided. While Mithrandir and Saruman argued in circles over the merits of their possible intervention, Harry was not so bound.

He was sure Saruman would have some choice words for him when next they met, but they would be worth it if the mountains could once again be made safe, to say nothing of the welcome stay of execution it would represent for the much beleaguered Dwarves.

"No spells," said Harry honestly. "In truth, I have come here only once or twice since the slaying of Scatha. There is seldom much reason to travel so far North."

"Then it is a queer thing indeed," said Elrohir. "It is a great pity indeed that neither me nor my brother were as attentive as perhaps we should have been when our father was teaching us of the deeper secrets of the world. There is something more here, something momentous, even, and yet I cannot see it. Once this war is done, I would much like to see if perhaps we can get Erestor to travel here with us."

"Much though I would prefer it that our father could travel here instead, he does not now leave Imladris except in direst need," said Elladan as he nodded, his eyes distant. "Perhaps Lord Celeborn could be convinced to step out once again from beneath the Mallorn leaves to revisit this place. Erestor is more learned than any other in Rivendell save our father and Lord Glorfindel, but he is not counted amongst the Wise."

"I fear that all this may yet be a long way off," said Harry. He well knew that the brothers, should they be left to themselves, could talk on the same subject for a long count of hours. "I fear it will be the least of our worries once this war has begun."

Elrohir's clear laughter rang out across the land, but was soon lost beneath the tumult of the marching armies. "Yet still you would not count yourself amongst the Wise," he said with a bright smile. "Perhaps you could teach Mithrandir a thing or two. Maybe then he would be less wont to worry over things that may never come to pass."

"His concerns are by far the greater of mine," said Harry as he shook his head. "When one is thinking of the future of the entire world, it does not do to overlook anything, no matter how unlikely it may seem when you are safe and comfortable. Better to consider the unthinkable when you have the comfort of distance, and have a ready answer for it if it ever comes to pass, than to discard it as impossible, and be blind-sided by it when mischance makes it come to pass."

"And yet it is you who now marches alongside an allied army of a kind not seen in our lifetimes," said Elladan. "As we speak, I am sure Mithrandir whiles away his time amid the Periannath. Oft does our mother lament his love of their leaf, she says she always knows when he journeys to our home, for the scent of it arrives a day or more ere he does."

Harry could not help the bubble of laughter that escaped him then. He knew Celebrían well enough to know that she would never say such a thing of the old wizard. "That does not seem like her. Perhaps you have confused your mother with Saruman," he said playfully. "I can perhaps see from whence the confusion arose for their colouring is passingly similar, yet his beard is by far the grander—"

"Aya!" cried Elladan, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "Remind me not to bandy words with you, Harry. Your time among the Dwarves and Men has made you uncouth!"

"I disagree," said Harry, a broad grin spreading across his face. "I think it is the presence of you and your brother that brings me to such an ill-mannered pass. Now, come, tell me of Imladris in my absence, I am sure there is much that I have not heard," said Harry. It would be a long ride, and there would be little enough for him to do other than talk as they made their slow way west. The company, though, would make the miles pass beneath his feet with ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the war begins. There's a bit more description of the changes the world has experienced when compared to canon. If you don't really know canon, then it's just background on how the world has changed since before the time-skip.
> 
> Here, Makhsûn is a Dwarvish name for Harry, in this case meaning 'Man of the Stag'.  
> Periannath is the plural form of the Sindarin 'Perian', meaning Hobbit.


	29. Then, Forth, To Seek Battle and Feud

"I do not like this plan," said Daewen, her voice nothing more than a whisper upon the wind. She and Harry lay atop a shallow bluff not far from the edge of the Dwarvish encampment. Concealed as they were beneath cloaks of Elven make, they were surely nearly invisible to the eye. Even should an army pass by upon the valley floor, just a few feet below them, they would remain undetected. At least, that was what they hoped.

Behind them, the Dwarves went about their motions, giving every impression of complacency. They were gathered here and there about many hearths, and the camp was awash in the warm light of their merry fires. Harry heard the occasional clunk of butting mugs punctuating sounds of quiet grumbling and infrequent bouts of gruff laughter.

In the distance, barely visible to Harry's eyes, the three peaks of Gundabad stood, tall and imperious, grim shades lurking lurking at the edge of sight. The dark basalt from which they were formed reflected little of the light of the waning moon, and it was only by the shadow they cast over the stars behind that Harry could see their outline.

To all appearances, the Dwarves had become lax. So close to one of their most legendary ancestral homes, and surrounded by so many of their kin, they had surely forgotten the cunning and inbred deceit of the Orcs.

Daewen tapped Harry lightly on the arm, and he glanced in the direction she was pointing.

Her eyes were more keen than his would ever be, but in the washed-out colours of the moonlit night, Harry could see that which she had found. The valley floor was moving.

The landscape around Gundabad had never been verdant, Harry knew. Even in the days of Durin the First, it had been a land of scrub and heather. Stark, and yet still there had been beauty in that austerity, but it had not taken the Orcs long to rob it of even that. In the centuries since Gundabad had been lost, all the land about the mountain had been turned, poisoned by their filth. It was a wasteland of barren, windblown dust that suffered nothing green to grow upon it. As he lay upon the bare earth, Harry could feel the resentment that had taken root deep within the land.

The Orcs blended into the dark, soured earth almost perfectly, and it was only by their movement, and numbers, that Harry was able to see the rough extent of their forces.

"How many are they?" he asked his companion. So acute was her hearing that even though he could barely hear the words, she heard them clearly.

"Perhaps as many as twenty thousand," she said. Her dark eyes were moving rapidly to and fro, tracking the nearly endless multitudes as they made their way ever closer to the Dwarvish camp.

"How long?" He didn't even need to open his mouth for his question to be understood.

"Not long, send the signal now," said Daewen. Her voice had to be a little louder than Harry's, for he had not the benefit of Elvish senses. "It will begin soon."

Harry nodded, and pulled out a small phial of clear liquid. He had not been idle during their long march, and what he held in his hands was perhaps the least flashy of his creations, yet it was still his proudest.

In its roots, it was a very simple potion. An infusion of golden elanor petals in the free-flowing fresh water of a mountain stream, combined with the smallest pinch of silver powder which, when mixed correctly and with all the care he could muster, resulted in a potion capable of emitting a warm, yellow glow. The first tricky part had been in suspending that effect until a final ingredient was added, for otherwise the concoction would be of little use to them.

Harry had once been told of a flower called fumellar, which grew in the gardens of Lórien, beyond the Pelóri mountains in Valinor beyond the sea. It was a dainty poppy-like bloom which glowed red like the sunset, for just a brief moment, as dusk fell across the land. It would have been perfect for the potion he wished to create, but it did not grow in Middle-earth, nor anywhere outside of the Gardens of Irmo.

The poppies he had tried in their stead held some faint echo of those distant flowers, but they had not been enough to stay the glow. He had then added nightshade, for he knew of nothing that could more effectively smother such vibrant life and light. As he added the nightshade, he also added both fresh peony buds, for their ability to to spring back into life once darkness had passed, and the crushed eggshells of a songbird native to the mountains. By stirring the nightshade in slowly, and alternating the direction, and granting more vigour to the other additions, he was able to strike the delicate balance.

The potion remained dark, but was ready to spring into life at any new addition to its mix.

That final ingredient would be the one that gave the potion the quality he was seeking. A single bee's wing was added to each phial of the potion except his own. Each wing was from a different bee in the same hive, and would serve to connect the potions in their effects even across great distances.

He unstoppered his phial, and added the final beeswing to it without flourish. A moment later, the liquid within became suffused with a soft glow, that slowly brightened. Harry then swiftly hid it beneath his clothes, before the Orcs passing just feet away could notice the light leaking from beneath his concealing cloak.

At that same moment, a dozen more phials, in the hands of a dozen different Dwarves, Men, and Elves lit up, and their strategy, long in the planning, was put to action.

A shout went up from the Dwarvish encampment, it sounded panicked and rushed, a call to arms in the face of an unexpected attack. A lie, of course, but one which their enemies were all too willing to believe. The approaching Orcs heard it, and the stillness of the evening was shattered. It was almost as if they were of one mind, for a great cry went up from them, and the very earth trembled to hear it. Cruelly spiked swords were drawn from grubby scabbards, and without having to be commanded by whatever it was that led them, they broke into a chaotic charge.

The mere thought of so many Dwarves, unawares and unprepared for their attacks, saw them consumed by their cruel bloodlust. Yet, still they were Orcs, and even in the face of such frenzy, stoked though it was by the long anticipation of their hunt, they were cowards to the bone. Even as their great host charged forward, the forefront of the charge slowed. None wished to run ahead, but neither did any of them wish to fall too far behind. Harry looked on as their thronging horde rolled up the valley with a deceptive slowness, like a wave upon a beach.

Their hesitation gave the Dwarves all the time they needed and more.

Harry knew the Dwarvish camp had looked to be in poorly managed disarray, but that had always been the plan. In truth, every mug was filled with water or coffee, and every Dwarf was tense with anticipation. Had the Orcish scouts been able to get a clearer view of the camp, they would surely have noticed the carefully hidden trench that encircled it, and the shallow-buried weapons stored near it. Not only that, but beneath their travelling cloaks, the Dwarves were all armoured and ready. Haldir and his company had ensured that all their careful preparations remained unknown to the skulking Orcs who'd attempted to scout out their positions earlier in the evening.

It took the Dwarves just seconds to form up in an unbroken spear-wall all along the camp perimeter. They were more than ready by the time the Orcish front-line reached the hidden trench.

When the roiling wavefront of the Orcish charge met the trench, the tone of their terrible war cries changed almost immediately. From his vantage point behind the bulk of the Orc vanguard, Harry watched as those unfortunate few who were at the very forefront of the charge felt their feet fall through the carefully placed twigs and loam. The momentum of their charge, and the unstoppable weight of battle-hungry Orcs behind them saw them plunge into the hastily excavated pits.

Such a trench would surely have been impossible for any other army. Creating such a pit under the watchful, if distant eye of enemy scouts was surely a task beyond the craft of Men or even Elves. None knew digging and shoring like the Dwarves, and the army that was camped there counted more than five thousand of them amongst their numbers.

At the direction of Thrain and Náin, all around the perimeter of the camp, a few tents had been erected before all others. While the rest of the camp was being established, those few border tents had been busy indeed. From those tents the Dwarves had excavated the entire trench from below ground, carefully shoring up the loam above with excess kindling, gathered from the woods on the nearby ridge. Then, once the pit had been excavated to a width of nearly ten feet at all points, the bottom was filled with hastily sharpened stakes, and a few spare spears.

It was those stakes that inflicted the first casualties of the evening, and the night air, which had only minutes previously been quiet, with only the sounds of mock merriment to be heard over the chirping of night-time insects, was filled with cries of surprise, terror, and pain. In the first seconds of the charge, hundreds of Orcs fell afoul of the trap, and their attack immediately faltered. Those at the back pushed on, while those at the front pushed back. Those unlucky Orcs who found themselves in the middle of it all were lucky if they were not crushed underfoot. The Dwarves wielded their long spears with all of the skill and tenacity that was native to their people, and all along the lines spear met flesh, and more Orcs died. Behind the spear wielding Dwarves, more bore the short compound bows common among their people, and so arrows flew through the darkness into the attacking hordes. So closely packed were the orcs that perhaps only one in ten missed its mark.

Harry knew that Dwarves did not have the same keen sense for archery that Elves had, or even Men, but they were more than accurate enough to find a target among the heaving multitudes of Orcs.

Panic would soon take hold, Harry realised. Ripples of uncertainty passed through the tightly packed orcs, and at the edges a few turned and ran. The assault would soon be in full retreat, and that was not something they could afford to permit. Harry pulled out two small stones, unassuming in their pitted appearances. The only thing setting them apart were two small Cirth runes engraved upon the surface of each. When he struck them together, the true plan was revealed.

A tiny spark flew from the stones, and leapt through the darkness, unseen by the unnerved Orcs. It drifted down through the air behind the rock upon which they were hidden, dropping slowly to the earth below. It was quickly trampled beneath dozens of filthy feet, yet the spark was not extinguished. For a period of three rapid heartbeats, nothing happened, and the panicked cries of Orcs continued to echo all around him.

Then, just when he'd begun to think he'd perhaps made some mistake, the spark took. It was as if a great beast, kin to Scatha the Worm, had drawn in a great breath, and all who were near felt the great inhalation, though the orcs knew not what it portended. A moment later, a wall of flame, twice the height of a man and which burned with all the furious energy of dragonfire was birthed from the dry earth. With a speed far exceeding even the most swift of horses, the flames traced a long path around the Dwarvish camp, cutting a path of blazing orange through the darkness.

During the long days of their march, Harry had worked tirelessly on that part of the plan. Creating a potion that could burn hot and long, merciless and fierce, was no great challenge to him. His first magical creation after his arrival in Middle-earth had been something similar, but that potion had nearly killed both him and his companion.

This fire was so much more than that. He had taken a single hair from every Dwarf, Man and Elf in the army, and mixed each into the huge cauldron containing the incendiary mixture, alongside the ash of burned Myrtle leaves ensured that it would not burn any among their host. He had gone further though, at the behest of Haleth. Each horse among his company also had a hair added to the potion, with not only Myrtle, but also the dried sap of a specific mangrove Harry had found during his journeys in the south, which the people there called blind-your-eye. Not only would the horses not be burned by the fire, but they would also be unable to see it.

The results of his long labours were better than he could have imagined. As the fires sprung up, hundreds more Orcs were burned in mere seconds, and the wavering army fell into complete confusion and dismay. Yet half the army had no hope of flight. Caught between the immovable wall of the Dwarves and their defences, and the impassable flames, they could do nothing but die under their arrows, or by their spears.

The other half of the army was a little better off, though the sounds of their dying compatriots, and the sudden appearance of the flames filled them with alarm. One among their number pulled himself up onto the rock on which Harry and Daewen were hidden.

He was larger than most of his kin, and had mottled black skin that was covered in all manner of hideous scarring. Unlike many of his kin he was not wearing the same armour of black iron, but instead a mismatched set of various Dwarvish and Mannish designs. One of his greaves even had styling that Harry recognised as Elvish. He raised his wickedly curved sword high, and roared into the night to draw the attention of his army to him "Elvish Sorcery!" he cried in a voice that sounded like a rusty saw being dragged over a stone. Unpleasant though it was, it was loud enough that the Orcs nearby turned to him, and their blind panic waned. "Soil, use soil to smother their flames! We can still have Dwarf flesh this night!"

Harry saw that his words had been able to rally some of his forces, and in that moment he decided to intervene. He glanced over at Daewen, who must have seen what he was thinking, for her eyes went wide and she shook her head in the smallest of gestures.

It was for nought, though. Harry was already rising from the ground, materialising behind the Orc like a spirit of the earth itself. As he rose, he drew his sword, and the black star-metal of Anguirel glittered once in the light of the distant moon.

The Orcs below saw him rise, and a great shout went up, some attempting to warn their leader, while others merely descended back into a panic. What their cries were enough to alert his target. The huge Orc turned with unlikely speed, and his sword met Harry's moments before the blade of Eöl could separate his head from his body.

It availed the beast little, for though his first strike was turned aside, Harry did not stop in his attack. A moment after the first blow would have landed, his staff swept through the darkness. Reflected fire shot down the length of its intricate silver inlays. It hit the Orc in the side with all the force Harry could muster, and a bright flash of purest white turned night into day for the briefest of moments.

The Orc was sent flying through the air by the magic Harry had imbued into the staff, and his broken body was cast down into the swarming army below, to their resounding consternation. The Dwarves and the wall of fire were both suddenly forgotten, and instead they all charged towards the rock with a single will.

Daewen stood beside Harry and drew her bow in a single smooth movement. "I told you I did not like this plan," she said in a conversational tone that did little to hide the worry that Harry could see in her grey eyes.

A great cry went up from the Orcs clustered around their promontory, and for a moment Harry feared they might be in trouble, as their enemy's panic had been washed away by rage when they had watched their leader dispatched with such ease.

Then the horns of the riders of Haleth sounded in the night, and the thundering of hooves echoed between the valley. A great war cry went up from a thousand throats, and the riders emerged from the darkness like terrible apparitions, and the Orcs fled before them. They flew across the earth, and it seemed as though the horses did not even need to touch the ground, such was their haste. At the forefront of the charge, Haleth led. "For Eorl! For the Riddermark!" he cried.

His cry was taken up by all the Men of his company, and the night was filled with a mighty furor as they bore down upon the Orcs, who saw that their doom had come for them. With their leader dead, and half their number lost to the impassable fires, they stood little chance. They were packed densely, but few among them held spears, and fewer still were able to bring them to bear in time to threaten the riders who were already upon them.

Harry saw the Orcs break at last, the thundering hooves of the Riddermark Men sending them to full flight, but there was no path they could find that would take them away from the merciless blades, spears and arrows of the Eorlingas. The fire was behind them, and the charge hit them on all sides. Those who found a gap in the wall of death were soon felled by arrows, loosed from the dark distant hill behind which Haleth and his forces had concealed themselves.

It was bloody work, and soon the riders surely found their sword-arms grow tired, but they did not stop. In the middle of the affray, Harry and Daewen fought, back to back. The flashing lights and booming sounds of Harry's sword and spells were a stark contrast to the focussed silence in which Daewen fought. The only sound from her was that of her sword and dagger as they cut the air, and the occasional hiss of her quickly depleting arrows when the Orcish throng grew too thin or distant to keep her blades occupied.

Another Orc charged at Harry, close upon the heels of the last, who was already dead upon the ground, his head cleft from his shoulders by the midnight blade in Harry's hand. Harry stretched out his other hand, and from his outstretched staff a searing beam of light issued. He felt the warmth of it beneath his hand as the captured light of stars was channelled through the spiderweb mithril that ran along its length. The light cut through the encroaching attacker, like morning sunlight through lingering fog. The Orc fell to the ground beside the remains of those who had come before, lifeless and scorched with a hole the size of Harry's palm in his torso.

"How goes the battle?" Harry did not need to shout over the sounds of the battle to be heard by Daewen, but it was a habit that was hard to break. Surrounded by so much clamour and cry that he could barely hear his own words, it was still hard to believe that Daewen could hear him just as surely as if they were standing in a quiet room.

"King Haleth and his riders are driving the Orcs into the flames," she called back, her eyes tracking the thousands of figures dimly illuminated by Harry's flames. They fought, they ran, they died by the hundred, the earth becoming thick with their bodies.

The foul stench of burning flesh assaulted Harry's senses, and he knew that she spoke true. "What of the Dwarves?" he asked. Another Orc threw themselves at him as he spoke, but their pig-iron blade, vicious and spiked though it was, could not gainsay his own, and even before Daewen was able to respond, another Orc corpse joined their fallen brethren.

"I know not," she said, and Harry could hear that she sounded troubled. "More than half of the Orcs were on the other side of the fire, I fear, along with most of their leaders. I cannot see what is unfolding beyond your veil of flames, but I can hear that the battle there is not the same slaughter we see on this side."

"Then we should see what we can do to help," said Harry. He was already moving, running as quickly as he could manage across the field so strewn with the dead.

Daewen took mere moments to catch him, her own steps light and sure across the battlefield, no more slowed in her sprint than she would have been upon the smoothest of the old roads of Arnor fallen.

A larger group of Orcs was before them, their backs to a larger rock. In the middle of the group, a great Orc, much larger than all the others, was bellowing commands to those around them, and even as Harry and Daewen crossed the ground between them, more Orcs were gathering to him. Among their numbers were a few of the Orcs who'd come with the foresight to bear spears, and Harry spied at least four horses of the Riddermark, felled by their hands, their riders cast into the dirt to be pounced upon by the other Orcs in the group.

Upon seeing Harry and Daewen charging towards them, the huge Orc leading them roared a wordless challenge to the sky, and they rushed forward to meet them in battle.

At Harry's side, Daewen slowed, and drew her bow once more from where she had slung it across her back. For a Man, it would surely have been nearly impossible to draw with such ease, and yet even before Harry had truly noticed her absence, her arrows were flying true, and with each one that found its mark in the gaps and holes in their armour, another enemy perished.

Harry knew that she had few arrows remaining, but what few she did have, she made count. The charge of his enemy faltered in the face of her careful shots. Every Orc that fell took another one or two with it to the dirt as they tripped those closest to them, arms and legs flailing wildly.

When he was just feet from the nearest of his enemies, Harry stopped, and in the same motion, plunged his staff into the ground before him. The earth cracked open, and a blinding white light issued from the fissure. Many of the Orcs fell then into unknowable depths, before Harry raised his staff once more, and the cleft lurched closed with the terrible implacability of continents, crushing the unfortunate Orcs with the cold embrace of the earth.

The power Harry had found in that battlefield was almost unlike anything he had felt before. Where he had long ago learned of the memory and will of earth and stone, he had never seen a hatred so true. The Orcs had warped the landscape around Gundabad, poisoned it in a way that would surely take many years to mend, and it did not love them for it. It remembered the love of its first father, and the children that had come after him, and it yearned to fight for them.

Harry merely gave it that opportunity. He reached deeper, to the very bones of the earth themselves and he felt them begin to respond.

Before stones could erupt from the ground to kill the last few Orcs, they were run-down by a group of horsemen who charged from out of the darkness and trampled the ill-prepared Orcs with ease. Harry felt the slaking of the earth's rage, as Orcish blood seeped into the barren soil.

Harry started running again, with Daewen once more on his heels. Without so much as pausing, he charged straight through the flames, and felt them tease at him, questing, investigating him, before allowing him to pass through unharmed. Despite his confidence in the concoction, Harry felt relief well up within him as he burst out the other side.

Where the battle outside the fires was nothing less than a slaughter, the Orcs within the flaming boundary had rallied to their commanders, and were making probing assaults upon the Dwarven positions. They had not left any rear-guard to defend against enemies emerging from the impassable flames, for why would they need to?

A moment after his own arrival, Daewen joined him, emerging from the flames surrounded by curling smoke.

"An altogether strange sensation," she said as she stepped up beside him, as the final wisps faded into the night.

"What can you see?" Harry asked as he peered into the darkness and tried to make sense of the dark mass of figures moving through the night beyond the reach of the light of his fires.

"The camp's defences still hold," said Daewen, her eyes picking details out of the darkness that were far beyond Harry's ability to see. The bright light of the fire behind them filled the battlefield beyond with an impenetrable inky blackness. "The Orcs are pressing the west much harder than the east, and have formed up a company of archers towards their rear there."

"Then that is where we will go first," said Harry. By his reckoning, it would be some time before the slaughter beyond the flames was concluded, but he hoped that Haleth might soon be able to send some small portion of his forces through the flames to relieve their allies.

As Harry and Daewen moved away from the flames, they both made sure to keep low as they moved so that they were not silhouetted against the light. Harry's eyes were once again able to adapt to the darkness. In the distance he could hear the shouts of command coming from the Dwarvish encampment, though they were almost lost among the sounds of battle that filled the night.

Then, they heard a cry coming from their left, towards the battle between the Dwarves and Orcs. Harry turned, and in the darkness he was able to make out particularly tall and gangly Orc wielding a sword in each hand. It wasted no time in charging them, crossing the space between them with unnatural speed, borne across the ground upon freakishly long legs.

Harry readied himself for the charge, and beside him he felt Daewen do the same. She had used the last of her arrows in their last confrontation, he realised.

The Orc met them in a whirlwind of flailing limbs and blades. In an action that Harry did not expect, he threw one of his swords through the air at Daewen just as he was covering the last few feet, and it forced her to jump out of the way. Despite the unexpected attack, Harry kept his eye on the Orc, who swung his other sword in a wild overhead arc that had enough power behind it to drive Harry to his knees as he blocked it. He was then forced to roll backwards as the Orc's other hand, which he had thought empty, slashed across where his chest would have been, a dagger having materialised in its clawed fingers.

The backwards roll meant he had to leave his staff, but as the orc stepped over it, looking gleeful, Harry summoned it back to his hand. The Orc was taken by surprise as the flying staff knocked its legs from beneath it, and fell backwards to the ground. A moment later, a recovered Daewen was upon the prone Orc, and her two daggers plunged into his chest.

Except they didn't. The blades were stopped dead by something. Harry realised then that beneath the disgusting rotten leather often worn by Orcs, something glimmered in the darkness. Somehow, the creature had been able to attach scraps of mithril chain to his gambeson, and it was more than enough to stop even Daewen's Elvish blades.

Her eyes went wide when she realised what had happened, and it was only by Harry's quick thinking that she was not gutted then and there by the rusty dagger held in the Orcs off-hand. Harry called upon the winds to rescue his friend, and from his outstretched staff a powerful shockwave of air and sound passed between them, throwing Daewen back, away from danger.

Harry immediately followed his attack up, and struck at the Orc's head with Anguirel, it was the one place he could be sure was not protected by mithril. The Orc raised its sword, but it did not help, for Anguirel could cleave such weak iron with ease, and it did so. The black blade cut deep into the Orc's skull, and into the rocky earth below it, sending harsh vibrations up Harry's arm.

Even as he completed his swing, he felt a sharp pain in his calf, and looked down to find that the Orc's final act had been to plunge his knife into Harry's leg. Harry stared at it a moment, wondering at how little pain there was from the wound, before he knelt down to pull it out, casting it upon the body of the Orc that was next to him.

"Are you injured?" said Daewen urgently. It had not taken her long to recover from being thrown by Harry's magic, and she moved quickly to his side. She was quickly able to pick out his injury. "You must be careful. You know how quickly the wounds from Orcish weapons can turn."

He did, of course. He reached into one a pouch secured firmly to his belt and pulled out a small vial of potion. With practiced motions, he soaked a strip of thick cotton in the potion, and dabbed it around the wound carefully, it came away marred by some kind of ugly black substance, which surely confirmed Daewen's worry, the Orc had poisoned the dagger in some way, and if left untreated, the wound would surely fester.

There was another shout, and he looked up to see that more Orcs had become aware of them. He shared a glance with Daewen, who spun her twin blades, and turned to meet them, intending to give Harry the time he needed.

Working quickly, Harry folded the patch over so that a clean part of it was revealed, then he held it firmly against the wound, before he tied it in place with a thin strip of leather. He'd have to make sure to change it often, but as long as he did so, the wound would be clean within the day. It wasn't the first time he'd seen infected Orc wounds, and he had learned to be prepared for them. Attempting to concoct the necessary potion to deal with the infection while suffering the fever and shaking their poisons could quickly induce was no small feat, and one he did not wish to have to reproduce.

Even the time taken for that brief ministration meant that Daewen was fighting a frantic and losing battle against more than two-dozen Orcs. He watched as she was forced to take a deep gash in one side, so that she could block another stroke that would have removed her head from her shoulders. He was too distant to make an immediate impact with his sword, and calling the earth, or air to fight them would surely see Daewen caught up in the attack too. Instead, he sheathed his sword, and he removed his wand from his staff, an idea he'd taken from Gandalf who kept his pipe in a little nook near the top of his own staff.

" _Anarvëa Alca!_ " he cried, as he thrust the wand towards the Orcs. A beam of light, as bright as the sun, and even more painful upon the skin of the creatures of Morgoth burst from his wand, and the Orcs cried out in fear and pain. Though they hated the sun, and hid from it where they could, it did not harm them. The light from Harry's wand was not that of the sun alone, for the power of Scatha was tied into the fiery brilliance.

Those who'd been facing towards Harry were blinded by it, and those who were not were still burned by its brilliance. Daewen was surely dazzled, but she reacted quickly, and leapt back, away from the Orcs who'd been assailing her, and towards the safety that Harry represented. She hissed in pain when she landed, and fell to a knee, clutching her injured side.

The Orcs fled in the face of Harry's scorching light, fearing it as they feared the first rays of dawn as the sun bestrode the eastern horizon. It had been the only way he could drive them off, but necessary though it had been, it also served to draw much unwelcome attention to them. The night was filled with red gimlet eyes, and they soon found the source of the light. The Orcs had surely made little progress against the immovable Dwarves, but a Man and an Elf, injured and alone upon the battlefield, were a tempting prize.

"Perhaps you were right," Harry admitted, when he realised that they would soon be facing a great many more Orcs coming their way with single-minded malice. "I really should have stayed quiet upon that rock."

Daewen chucked, and the usual brightness of that sound was strained by the pain she was in. "Perhaps," she said simply, as they readied themselves for the inevitable charge "If we get out of this, I must remember to remind you of this."

Harry threw his vial of curative potion across to Daewen so that she could minister to her wound. Elves did not need to fear any diseases, but the poisons occasionally used by the Orcs could cause them great hurt. Then, he stepped forward, prepared to bring the world, earth, wind and fire, to bear upon their attackers.

But the charge never came. Instead, a thunder of hooves filled the night, and drowned out the shouts and battle-cries of the Orcs before them, and the riders of Haleth charged through the flames, their spears and shields aloft, and accompanied by the proud blaring of horns. Their horses glistened with sweat, and each heavy breath exhaled warm clouds that quickly condensed in the cold night air. Harry saw Haleth, and beside him rode his banner-bearer. Each looked as bloodied and tired as Harry felt, but it did not blunt the fury of their charge.

The horses of the Éothéod streamed past them both, and continued on to break over the massed ranks of the Orcs. Soon, they, like their kin beyond the flame-wall, were lost to panic, and fled blindly whichever way they could.

The battle was not over, their bloody business not concluded, but the night was won.


	30. And Light from Darkness Did Spring

The tunnels beneath Mount Gundabad ran for miles beyond miles. Near the surface the craft of the Dwarves of yore was still clear to see, though much marred by refuse and filth. Everywhere, clumsy attempts had been made to adapt the clean, functional styling common to Dwarf holds to the more harsh preferences of its more recent denizens. As the tunnels delved deeper beneath the mountain, a change came upon them.

The orderly tunnels, and trim, angular shapes gave way to rough-hewn burrows that cut through the stone almost at random, with no planning or forethought evident in their construction. Many of the deeper pits were wet or flooded; others had collapsed. Some had caved in when deeper delvings cut beneath them or else too close to them and the rock surrounding them failed beneath the weight of the mountain above. Others had been left impassable as natural faults in the stone had slipped or subsided, perhaps burying countless numbers of the Orcs who had lived there.

As Harry traversed the deeper tunnels, with Daewen and a small group of Dwarves at his side, he was reminded of the insect called Khôrlekhî which lived in the great dry plains that dominated southern Harad. They built huge towers, taller than a man despite their tiny size. Sometimes they built too high, and the towers would collapse, and the maze of little chaotic shafts and radical tunnels would be exposed to the world. Every tunnel seemed to bend and twist almost at random. Widening in places, constricting in others, there was no rhyme or reason to it, and yet there was undeniably some kind of structure to the whole that was invisible while walking those dark trails.

What it was that the Orcs searched for in the dark, no-one really knew. They would sometimes smelt the iron they found in their excavations, but much of the time it was discarded, tossed atop the mountainous spoil heaps that often grew up around the places where they had come to dwell.

"How deep do these tunnels run?" Daewen asked, though Harry was not sure what form of answer she expected, for no Dwarf had walked the deeps of Gundabad since the sack of Eregion.

"No-one knows," said the Dwarf who led their group. He was Balin, son of Fundin. He was very young in the reckoning of Dwarves, scarcely thirty years old, but he had refused to stay away from the war when Fundin had tried to dissuade him. "They dig and dig, but I think even the Orcs would not have known just how far they had gone."

"Much further and we will surely reach the forges of Mahal himself," said another of the Dwarves, whom Harry thought might be called Frár. He was a close friend of Balin, and could often be found at his side. "And wouldn't that be a sight!"

The last member of their group, Náli spoke then, "We should go no further." As he spoke, he peered into the darkness beyond the reach of their flickering lamps. Dwarves may have had an ability to see in darkness that would have left Harry blind, but the darkness beneath Gundabad was so complete that even they were unsighted. Even the fabled ability of their race to never lose their way was surely challenged in those lightless places. "The lamps are fading, and the air becomes thick. I fear the Athrabu-a'tum lies heavy in these tunnels."

The other Dwarves in their company needed no more reason than that to turn back. All among them knew the danger that could be found in the pockets of bad air so far beneath the surface. The Orcs had given little consideration to proper ventilation in their delvings.

"Wait," said Harry. He tried to peer through the gloom. He could feel something up ahead, or perhaps it was the cooling air, when it had only warmed on their descent to that point.

It was a strange sensation, at once familiar and alien. He was not sure from where the familiarity came, but in his mind he heard the sound of rushing air, or fire, or water, and secret whispers in an unfathomable language. Those whispers were there too, in that place hidden in darkness before him, and yet their cadence was different, their sensation.

He knew not what it was he was sensing, nor what it was that it brought to mind when he lingered upon the thought, but just as he could feel the sucking vastness of the chamber beyond, completely without sight, he could sense the size and shape of something momentous just beyond the limits of thought.

He knew the danger of the blackdamp, as it was sometimes called in the language of Men, and so he went no further. Yet, that feeling drew him on, and he could not turn back. He had to see. Drawing forth his wand, he pointed it into the darkness before him. " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

The familiar shape of a stag burst forth, illuminating bleak, bare rock with light of purest white. It took a moment before his eyes could adjust to the sudden light, but he was soon able to see again. The tunnel looked little different than it had looked before, yet the deep shadows that had stalked them for so long had been banished beyond the limits of sight, and the rough-hewn walls seemed less filthy.

Taller than a man, the tips of the stag's impressive antlers extended so high that they disappeared into the ceiling. At his direction, it trotted forward, driving the darkness further back as it did. Soon, not far beyond the limit of their lamplight, it revealed a great void. So distant was it that the light of the stag could not reach the far wall, and instead it was filled only with stars that sparkled in the darkness.

"It is a cavern!" said Daewen, her voice breathless as she gazed into the black void, seeing more than even the Dwarves. "Filled with all manner of crystals of every size. It is larger, surely, than even the grand hall above."

A murmur of surprise passed between the Dwarves, and Frár made to step forward, to explore the newly discovered cave that had taken the breath from even an Elf. He was stopped when Balin placed a hand upon his shoulder and said, "Grand though I do not doubt it is, we go no further. Can you not feel the bad air lingering upon your breath, the weight it sets upon your eyes? The fetters upon your thoughts? It is not safe."

The reluctance in his voice and manner was clear for all to hear. Surely even Daewen, who had seen little of the Dwarves before the beginning of the war would be able to recognise the wistful looks her companions had upon their faces.

Beautiful though the chamber surely was, Harry knew it was not mere beauty that was calling to him from out of the darkness. He needed to see it for himself, he needed to feel it up close.

"Perhaps there is something I can try," said Harry, though even as he said it, he was not sure what it was he intended. He knew of no spells that could purify the air, but perhaps that did not mean it was impossible.

He placed his wand back into the slot near the top of his staff, and held it in both hands before him. His eyes drifted closed, and he listened to the world about him.

So deep beneath the earth, so far from the warming light of the sun, it was quiet, and cold. The muted whispers, the subtle refrains to which he had grown accustomed in the surface world were gone, reduced to little more than distant echoes. The stone around him was silent, and dead. The air too did not dance to the tune of the wind, it lay still and thick within the tunnels, all memory of life gone from it.

Harry wondered if that was what the world had felt like in its earliest days, before the Elves, and Men, and Dwarves had been born into it. Or had it been loud with the joy of youth, as tree and bush, and bird and beetle had grown busily upon its back? Had that joy ever penetrated so deep?

Almost on a whim, Harry drew forth some of the potion ingredients he'd taken to carrying with him everywhere he went. It was not much: flowers and grasses, leaves and cuttings. Together they could create some of his more basic draughts; curatives and salves for the most part. He opened a small satchel, and within it were some of the many seeds he'd found in his travels. Acorns, and other nuts, smaller seeds, dried fruits and pods there were, and Harry's hand hovered over them. For a moment, his hand hovered over a Mallorn nut, yet he knew that it would not love the darkness, and it would not fulfill his purpose.

Perhaps instead he should use the seeds of yew, for they at least did not shy from darkness, and yet even as he considered it, he discounted them for they bore death with them, and would surely not fill the cave with the life needed to awaken the stone from its millennia long slumber.

Then he found it. Larger than many of his other ingredients, nearly the size of a fingernail, and had a white-gold sheen that almost glowed in the distant light of his Patronus.

It had been a gift, such as it was, from the Steward of Gondor to Harry, given in thanks for returning the body of Eärnur, the last King of the line of Anárion so that it might lie in the crypts of his forefathers. It was a single seed from the White Tree that grew in the Court of the Fountain in Minas Tirith, and its worth was more than gold.

When the gift had been given, it had been a gesture only, for seldom indeed did the seeds of that line grow into saplings. In all of the years since Nimloth the Fair, sapling of Celeborn, had been brought to Numenor only thrice had the line flowered, and many believed it never would again, unless perhaps the line of Elendil bloomed anew also.

Harry cared not for the line of kings, but instead his thoughts were upon Celeborn. Not Celeborn of the Golden Wood, but Celeborn of Tol Eressëa, child of Galathilion, Tree of Tirion, which was created in the image of the White Tree of Valinor. It was said that the elder trees of that line bloomed only in darkness, once the sun had passed beyond the western horizon, and in so doing filled the night with life and beauty.

Life and beauty, and the joy of all things that live and grow, within a single seed. Perhaps there was yet a way to awaken the stone to the life that lived so far above.

It pained him to use it, but the longer he considered it, the more he knew that it was surely the only thing that could manage what he sought. Of all his choices, only it could bring joy and light and laughter to the forgotten depths. No ordinary tree or flower or shrub would grow there, but the line of Nimloth was not ordinary. The power, though much of it had long been forgotten, or quenched by the world and the turning of years, yet remained. The memories of Valinor, and the power that resided there, were faded, but they were not altogether forgotten.

For a moment he wondered if perhaps he should allow the darkness its solitude, yet those whispers called to him.

Like a musician who was both blind and deaf, he extended his hand, seed perched atop, into the open air, and felt for the feeble strains of magic that still inhabited even the deep places of the world, though forgotten by all.

The weakest of breezes brushed at his hand, and he felt the seed raise then settle back upon it, teased by the smallest of zephyrs. Instead of grasping at the breeze, Harry instead let himself be carried by it, feeling its twists and turns as it explored the otherwise dead air of the tunnel. Perhaps it was only his own breath, or the breath of his companions, but with his attention and careful tending, it grew into a gust.

It dove towards his hand, and plucked the seed up to tumble through the air, dancing to an unheard melody. In a rush and flurry, it bore the seed into the great cavern until it was set gently upon soft earth collected in a hollow upon the ground. The wind did not die, and instead flitted about the cave, exploring every nook and cleft, every pillar and every stone.

Harry opened his eyes once more, ignoring the wide eyes of his companions. His gaze set upon his great stag patronus, still standing patiently near the entrance to the cave until, hearing his wordless command, it trotted soundlessly into the cavern. When it reached the place where the seed had been deposited, it glanced up, brightly luminous eyes following the path of the breeze Harry had commanded as it gambolled through the darkness.

Then, slowly, it lowered its head, and nuzzled the seed. A flash of light, bright as the sun and pure as the stars, filled the cavern, illuminating the space. As Daewen had said, every wall was covered with crystals, in all pale white and blue. They captured the light, and returned it, and though the flash lasted but an instant, it took near a minute to fade. When it did, darkness rolled back in like a midnight wave to refill the void.

But the darkness felt different now, no longer cold and unfeeling, instead it warmed the breath and welcomed the weary. Something of the Patronus remained within the chamber, and hung upon the air. In the darkness, Harry could feel something awake, and the whispers stirred.

There was a creaking within the darkness, and a rustling like the leaves of Lorien in a westerly breeze. Then, faint glimmers awoke in the void. Pinpricks of pure light, like the first nervous stars to appear after a long day of concealment. First there was one, then two, then a dozen then more than any man could hope to count, filling the cavern ahead of them with a ribbon that glittered more brightly than the wheel of heaven on the clearest mid-winter night.

Then the stars bloomed, spreading lustrous petals wide, and their source was revealed. A tree had grown up in the darkness, with leaves of green and silver and flowers of pale moonlight. It stretched from the floor all the way to the ceiling of the cavern, tall and thin, yet still lush and thickly of canopy.

Harry's hand fell to his side as he released his concentration, and his senses diminished, and looked upon his creation with no small amount of awe. Even as he watched, the light faded from the blooms, but the crystals of the cave captured it, and did not let it escape. Soon, though the light from the tree had faded to little more than a memory of what it once had been, the cavern was still lit, like the land beneath a slim crescent moon.

Under that light, Harry felt the stone and earth, the air and water of the cavern slowly awaken, as if from a long slumber. A great wind rushed about them, like a great inhalation, and Harry could immediately feel the change as his own breathing soon became easier, and the air shed its heaviness.

The Dwarves all drew in deep breaths, savouring the fresh taste that had filled the air, alike to that found upon pristine, snow-tipped mountains on the first dawning morning of spring. In their hands the once weak lamps held flames that burned like new-lit brands, vibrant and bright in the cleared air. Balin looked to Harry, and awe was upon his face. "Never have I heard tale of such magic," he said, breathless. "Surely not since the Elder days have such powers walked the lands."

Not knowing how to respond, Harry instead stepped forward, and into the revealed cavern. He stopped just inside, but was soon passed by Daewen, who was gazing upon the tree in the centre of the cave, and yet it seemed for the first time that her eyes were unseeing, or else they were seeing something entirely further away than Harry could fathom.

"Telperion." Her voice was a mere whisper, reverent and as distant as her gaze. Suddenly, she seemed to come back to herself, and her head whipped around to look upon Harry with an intensity he had never before seen from her. "From the craft of one who would have us believe him to be of the lines of Men alone. How did you do this? How did you create this wonder? That which even Yavanna herself could not recreate, you have birthed anew into the world."

"This is not Telperion reborn," said Harry. He had never seen Telperion, but he'd spoken of it once with Glorfindel of Rivendell, and the mere memory of it had caused the Elf Lord to break into a song of such melancholy beauty that Harry had been moved to tears. "It is but an image or memory of it. The seed was of the line of Galathilion, which once bloomed in that light, and loved it more than even the Golden, and it is that distant memory which we can see now. This light will fade eventually, I am sure, though perhaps with care the tree could be kept from withering in this place so far from the sustaining sun."

"When word of this reaches Imladris, there will surely be a great Pilgrimage to this place," said Daewen, and there were tears in her eyes as she turned once more to gaze upon the tree again. "Lothlórien too, and all of the Havens of Mithlond. There are few of us who saw the Trees in their bloom when the world was yet young, yet as I stand here and gaze upon this, I feel as if some memory of them has come to me and blessed me with that which I long wished I could have known. This place will draw all of our kin who hear of it, of that I have no doubt."

"Dwarves too," said Balin as he stepped into the great cavern, and marvelled at the glittering walls of gem and stone. His eyes were upon a huge flat-topped stone that was upon the floor at the rear of the cavern. It was shaped almost like an anvil, yet made from stone. "It is said that Mahal created the Dwarves first in his halls beneath the earth, and that Durin the Deathless awoke there in the days when the world was still dark. Beneath Gundabad, they said, and yet none knew where. Here, I think, is where they shall say it happened. This, they shall say, is Imhdum. The tree shall never whither, I am sure, for as long as there are Dwarves who would tend it. This will be a place untouched, unless to maintain the grace that is already here, for what hand could carve these walls with more artistry, or grow the tree with more glory than is already here?"

Harry did not miss the surprise that was upon Daewen's face when she heard that, but was pleased to see that she held her tongue. Instead, her gaze flicked momentarily to Harry, and he knew she was remembering his own words regarding the Dwarvish appreciation of beauty.

They took their time, then, to search the great cavern as thoroughly as they could manage when all but Harry were lost in the marvels that it contained. It was clear that though the Orcs of Gundabad had been the ones to reveal it in their aimless diggings, they had never stepped foot into it for long. Perhaps it was the bad air that would have caused the Orcs every bit as much pause as it caused Dwarves, or perhaps it was some lingering power that dwelt there, a recollection of what had once been, in that place.

Unlike the rest of Gundabad, it had been left unsullied. Perhaps it was some bestial apprehension of the power that had once been there, if it truly was the place where Aulë had once made his abode, when the world was yet young and unformed. Perhaps that was why the Orcs had been unwilling to stay long within the grand chamber.

Harry tried to reach out once more to those whispers he'd felt before the tree had bloomed into growth, and yet they were silent. Whether they were drowned out by his magic, and the power that had seemingly come to reside within the tree, or if they had been chased from the secret place by their presence, Harry did not know.

Eventually, their lamps began to fade once more as their fuel dwindled, and they decided that they would need to return to the surface. As the Dwarves and Daewen trailed reluctantly from the cavern, each and every one of them casting poorly-concealed glances back towards the tree, and the grand sanctuary of crystal and stone that surrounded it, Harry too looked back.

In the darkness left behind by their retreating lamps, the outline of the tree could still be seen. It was a ghostly shape within the blackness. The blooms had not faded completely, even after as long as they had searched, and they shone like the last faint light of a lone, reflected star within the morning dew before the sun rose in its fiery splendour. Far above the uppermost limbs, points of silver light glittered in the darkness. As they left it there in its now welcoming back embrace, Harry wondered how long it would endure so far from the life-giving sun.

The return journey to the surface was much shorter than the descent. One by one their lamps failed, until they came at last to the grand halls where the Dwarves of Thráin's host thronged all about. Propping and shoring, cleaning and scouring, they worked tirelessly to return the first home of their people to its long forgotten majesty.

Balin sought out his father first. Fundin was directing many of the work-teams that were so busily consumed by their work. At the same time, Daewen broke off from the group, and Harry knew without the need to ask that she was going to seek her own kin, so that they too could see the wonder that now resided leagues beneath their feet.

"You are returned!" said Fundin, as he glanced up to see the serious expression upon his son's face. "What is the state of the deeps beneath the mountain?"

"The Orcs delved deep and far. Their tunnels run much longer than those of our ancestors," said Balin after greeting his father with a fierce hug. "We thought it impossible to find the end of them, but we did and it is a place you must see to believe, father."

"They uncovered gold, gems?" Fundin asked, his thick, dark brows knitting together. "Perhaps if that is the case then we might be able to convince Nari of the need to leave more than the smallest force to hold this place."

"The worth of this place is surely greater than mere gold or gems," said Balin, and the Dwarves that had accompanied them nodded rapidly, emphatic. "It is something I do not have words to describe, but you may be assured that once it becomes known, there will be no difficulty convincing anyone of the need to leave this place with a proper defence."

Fundin glanced across at Harry, as if disbelieving of his son's words. Harry merely dipped his head in the smallest of nods. Quite apart from the tree, if that cavern truly was the place where Durin and the other fathers of the Dwarves had first been formed by Aulë when the world was still young, then it would surely be as Balin said.

"If you would not believe us, then perhaps you should see it for yourself," said Balin, sharply. "But if you go, bring with you all of the Lords of Durin's folk, and the sons of Elrond too."

"They are yet occupied upon the field," said Fundin, though he looked a little shaken, as if he could feel just how important their discovery might be, even if he had not yet seen it himself. "I shall send word to them of what you have told me here, and when they are ready to travel so deep into the earth, I will call you again and you can have the honour of leading them to your great find."

They parted ways then, and Harry saw both Frár and Náli depart back in the direction they had come, determined expressions upon both their faces. Surely they were set upon returning to the cavern, but Harry decided against it. There was much on his mind.

He knew of Nimloth the Fair, the tree which had bloomed in the King's Court of Armenelos in Numenor across the sea. It was said that it had bloomed every night. As the sun set, its pale white flowers had opened, and the night had been filled with their delicate perfume. Those days were gone, though. Nimloth had been cut down by the followers of Sauron, and its wood used to light the first fires in the new temple to Morgoth. Isildur had stolen a fruit, though, and Nimloth's children became the symbol of his line after their flight to Middle-earth.

The last of Nimloth's line grew still in the Court of the Fountain in Minas Tirith, and it was not nearly so grand as the one that bloomed beneath his feet. The new tree was a wonder out of time, and what troubled Harry was that he did not understand it. He knew the power he felt within his Patronus well, it was a memory that had warmed him on cold nights, in places far from the sight of the sun, but he had never imagined it to hold such a power that had somehow been imparted to the White Tree's seed.

It had been the joy, the life and the vibrancy of the Patronus that he had hoped to direct to the task of coaxing the seed into life, and yet it had done so much more than that. He had wanted nothing more than to bring some small growing thing into the darkness, to kindle the flame that had warmed the earth and air and water of the surface of the world. He would have used it to awaken the stone, and through that the air to sweep the dead miasma from the deep caverns.

Yet he had not needed to. The tree had not only sprouted, but it had bloomed into magnificent maturity, a form and likeness not seen for thousands of years, and with it had come more than Harry had ever imagined.

Could it be that the strange behaviour of his magic was due to the feeling he'd gained from the place before he'd so much as cast a single spell? It was not until he came to the Great Gate of Gundabad, and saw the Gatefall Stream beyond, which fell in a thin waterfall wreathed by a glittering rainbow, that he remembered where he'd felt that sensation before.

It had been in the place beyond, after he'd fallen into the darkness beneath Moria, after his battle with the Balrog that dwelt there. The whispers in the dark were kin, perhaps, to the same whispers and forgotten powers he'd felt then.

Was there some connection, then, between the being that had worn the face of Dumbledore, and Aulë, if indeed that chamber was Imhdum? Long had Harry thought it to be a dream, or the desperate imaginings of a dying mind. What if it was more than that?

Once, when he'd spoken of it with Saruman, there had been a flicker in his attention, as if there was something he knew, but could not impart to Harry. There were secrets, Harry knew, that the Istari could not impart to any, but just what was it that Saruman had thought at that moment?

Had it been one of the Valar, clothed in the appearance of Dumbledore? For a moment he wondered if it had perhaps been Aulë himself, and yet even as that thought formed, he discarded it. The feeling had been familiar, but not alike. What other of the Valar might have purpose with Harry? And what might that purpose be?

Troubled, he passed the Great Gate of Gundabad, into the wasteland beyond. Here and there all across the landscape, Dwarves and Men were working together. The Elves that had joined Elladan and Elrohir were mostly beyond his sight, scouting upon distant hilltops, watching for any possible attacks by their enemies. Gundabad had fallen, and that was a grievous blow to the Orcs of the Misty Mountains, Harry knew, but their numbers were still akin to the blades of grass in a meadow.

Fewer than one hundred Dwarves had died in the battle, though thrice that number had been injured by arrow and thrown spear. At last accounting, the riders of Haleth had suffered more casualties relative to their numbers, with nearly sixty of them falling in the battle that had come to be known as the Battle of the Flame. None among the Elves had fallen, though one had been injured by an arrow, fired wild into the darkness.

In all, the leaders of the allied forces had called it a great victory, and there had been loud voices that had called for the army to march once more as soon as it was ready. They had gotten a taste of glory, and they immediately knew they wanted more. Harry wondered if perhaps his magics wasn't as much a curse to their armies as it was a boon. Their victory had come easily, yes, but soon there would be another battle to fight, and another after that. How long would the war last, when the Orcs were nearly numberless in their caves beneath the mountains?

He could not reflect on those thoughts for long, for soon an Elf ran up to him, passing easily over the broken, rocky ground that surrounded Gundabad. Harry found he could not recall his name.

"A host nears," he said as soon as he reached Harry. "They come from out of the East. Dwarves, a thousand strong."

Those were unexpected tidings, there had been no word that another force of Dwarves was heeding Thráin's summons. From all the Clans that lived in the East there had been fewer than a thousand who had answered the call to arms, and all of those had been travellers among the northern holds.

"How far are they?" Harry asked.

"Ten leagues, maybe more. It will be at least two days before they are able to reach us here," said the Elf. "Perhaps more, for the march of a Dwarf-host is slow indeed."

"The Commanders are occupied upon the field," said Harry, looking out towards the battlefield, where plumes of smoke rose into the air from the great pyres built to consume the Orcish dead. He was sure they would know no more than he, but they would surely wish to know of an army so large encroaching upon their lands, even if they were almost certainly allies. "We should bear this news to them."

It was not a short walk to the battlefield, and so Harry passed the time getting to know the Elf who accompanied him. He was Aegnor, a son of one of the lesser houses that still inhabited Imladris, and named for a hero of the Elves who had died many years passed in the battles against Morgoth.

"Why did you choose to join Elrond's sons in their choice to fight in a war that is not theirs?" Harry asked him as they walked.

"Long have I desired to explore the world beyond the limits of Elvish land," said Aegnor, his voice wistful and distant. "Many times did I make the journey to gaze into the Elostirion Stone in Emyn Beraid, and many times did it show me the white shores of Tol Eressëa, yet I wanted to see more."

"There is certainly much to see in the world," said Harry, understanding the desire. "It seems strange to me, though, that you'd go to war for that chance, rather than travel as the sons of Elrond sometimes do."

"I have travelled with them on occasion," said Aegnor, and he smiled at some memory Harry did not know, "but even they usually stay within the North, and seldom stray further south than Lothlórien. I am sure you know of the potential dangers to be found in Calenardhon. The people there are wary of all outsiders, and mistrust Elves more than any. It is said you have travelled further than any Man. I had hoped I might hear some of your tales."

Harry smiled, for while he seldom enjoyed hearing the inflated legends of his own deeds, there was a joy in meeting those who sought after knowledge of the lands too distant for them to travel. It seemed to him that the world grew ever smaller as shadows lengthened and light faded. People who once would have travelled far, now stayed closer to home. Caravans from the East became more and more seldom, news from the South came more seldom still, except when Gandalf would return from one of his own lengthy journeys.

"Then hear them you shall, if that is what you wish." An idea occurred to him. "Perhaps I will tell you this evening of some of my time among the Dwarves of Ironhaunt, and of their great Gardens, the Sakdîth Bazzun, or the Dumu Zirin-Aklum where the King of Ironhaunt sits atop his throne."

"You believe the new host is of Ironhaunt?"

"I do," said Harry. There was little other option that made sense. Of the Dwarf holds in the East, Ironhaunt was the strongest, and the only one still unthreatened by the rising power of the Men to their south. "Unless much has changed in the long years of my absence from their lands, they would not leave us to this war alone."

"Then it would please me greatly to hear your stories of their home," said Aegnor as his gaze turned east.

Soon, they came upon the Commanders of the Dwarvish host. The camp that had been constructed to lure in the Orcs was being broken down much more slowly than it had been created. Many of the tents were still erected, and through them, issuing orders to all who came near, walked Thráin with his advisors at his side.

"The losses are few enough," Thráin was saying to Nari who was one who walked in attendance. There too was Thorin, son of the King, and Náin of Ironhills. "Those who have fallen deserve to be placed properly to rest."

"To construct even one hundred tombs is no short task," said Nari. "We would be better served burning them with honour, and continuing our campaign before the Orcs can gather a force to face us in strength. With Gundabad broken, their power in the North is greatly weakened. They are scattered."

It was clear to Harry that his argument was not being well received by the other Dwarves in Thráin's company.

"If you thought it might speed your path to greater renown, you'd see them buried in _dirt_ ," said Náin, and the distaste in his tone was clear for all to hear. "How many among your people fell last night?"

Nari's people had a greater affinity with bow and sling than most of those among Durin's Folk, and had been at the rear of the fighting. Unless things had changed, Harry was not aware of anything more than a few minor injuries sustained by either the Firebeards or Broadbeams.

Still, Nari looked insulted by the insinuation. "If you would call me kâmnul, then have the courage to say it directly." His hand rested meaningfully upon the axe that hung at his side. "That way I can respond in the proper manner."

"Enough," said Thráin, his voice firm. His dark eyes shifted between Nari and Náin, quelling them, at least for a time. "They will be laid to rest in the manner that befits their sacrifice. More than that, so will the Men who fell alongside us. If their compatriots would wish it, I would have them set down beside our own, before the gates of Gundabad."

That caused even Náin's heavy brow to rise in surprise.

"That would be a fitting thanks for their sacrifice," said Harry, choosing that moment to make his voice known. "The Éothéod have long entombed their dead in burial mounds. They would surely see the honour that you do them by setting them down beside your own. In this war, we are all brothers in arms, are we not?"

"That we are," said Thráin. He nodded once to Harry, either in recognition or thanks, Harry was not sure. "How goes the scouring of Gundabad?"

"So far as we know, the Orcs have been driven from the mountain completely," said Harry, falling into step with the rest of the group following Thráin as he toured about the battlefield. "A few remained after the battle, some attempted to fight us but they were soon put down and we suffered no casualties. The rest must have fled when they saw how the battle went."

"If they have fled, then the other Orc nests will surely hear of our coming and be more prepared than that which we found here," said Náin. He spoke reluctantly, as if he knew Nari would agree with him, and did not wish to give him that satisfaction.

Thorin, eldest son of Thráin, stepped forward to stand by his father. He had acquitted himself well during the battle, leading a section of the perimeter ably, and killing more than two-dozen Orcs with his axe. It had gained him enough standing that the other Lords of the Dwarves now listened to his thoughts, though it would likely yet be some time before they were considered to hold much weight. He was, after-all, still young in the reckoning of his people. "Let them prepare. It will not avail them," he said, filled with the confidence of youth.

"There is other news," said Harry, and he gestured Aegnor forward to speak.

"Another host marches towards us," he said. He glanced between Harry and Thráin as he spoke, as if he was uncertain who he was meant to be addressing. "Dwarves from the East, at least one thousand strong."

That drew forth some sounds of mild surprise from Nari and Náin both, for there had been no hint of another force marching to meet them.

Thráin was the first to speak, "How long before they arrive?"

"Two days, at the least," Aegnor responded. "Riders could surely reach them in less than a day, but if we wait here, I think they will reach us either late on the second day, or early on the third."

"This is good news," said Náin, and he indeed looked very pleased. "If they are so close, and with such numbers then surely it would be best to await their arrival. In that time we can work to set our dead properly to rest, and fortify Gundabad against any attempts to retake it."

"Aye." Nari looked like he'd swallowed something disagreeable, but he could not argue with the necessity to wait. "I would still counsel in favour of using the horse folk to scout for nearby Orc burrows. We should not remain idle if we do not wish to lose our advantage."

"We will await them, then," said Thráin, and he nodded to Aegnor politely. "You have my thanks for bringing us this news." His gaze then returned to Harry. "I also heard that something of note has been discovered beneath the mountain? Something that young Balin thinks it is important I see?"

Harry was uncertain about what to say to that. The importance of the cavern could not be understated, and yet Harry could not escape the feeling that perhaps Daewen and the Dwarves both were focusing on the wrong things. That what was important was not what had been found or created in that place, but instead what had once been there. "I think it is important that all of you see it," he said eventually, glancing at Nari as he did so. "Perhaps it will change some minds."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter veered somewhat towards the lore-y. Here's some info on things that were mentioned:
> 
> Khôrlekhî = Termites. Khôr - lekhî: From 'Taw' (wood) in primitive Elvish, and 'lewek' (worm) in primitive Elvish, mutated to Adunaic. Thus, literally, they are called 'woodworm', which is one of the source words that 'termite' came from ('termes' in Latin, meaning woodworm).
> 
> Athrabu-a'tum = Khuzdul for Blackdamp, literally 'the stealer of breaths'.
> 
> Telperion was the White Tree of Valinor. In the days before the Sun and Moon the land of Valinor was lit by two trees. Laurelin, which bloomed for half the day, and filled the continent with golden light, and Telperion, which bloomed the other half of the day, casting silver light across the land. They were eventually destroyed, and the last fruit of Laurelin was placed in a vessel and into the sky, the sun. The last bloom of Telperion was similarly placed into the sky and it become the Moon.
> 
> Galathilion was created in the image of Telperion, though it did not glow. From Galathilion came Celeborn (no relation to the Elf), and from Celeborn came Nimloth, which was gifted to the kings of Numenor. The White Tree of Gondor is a descendant of Nimloth. Harry's tree is something of a throw-back to Nimloth, empowered by his own magic to grant it a tiny portion of the power that Telperion had once had which is what results in the faint glow.
> 
> Aule was the Valar who created the Dwarves (also called Mahal in Khuzdul). He wished to create beings who would craft things of beauty from the stone, but the ability to create life lay only with Eru (God) and so his creations, the Dwarves, were little more than automatons. Eru came to Aule and basically told him off for trying to create life of his own, and to destroy them. When Aule raised his hammer to do so, the Dwarves cringed and shied away, for Eru had given them true life. They became the adoptive children of Eru, alongside the 'true' children, Men and Elves.


	31. Restored Was That Which Was Hidden

The host of eastern Dwarves struck an impressive pace, and arrived late in the afternoon on the second day.

Harry watched as they marched proudly into the camp that had grown up around the gates of Gundabad. Fourteen abreast, their column marched, and the rhythm of their tread was like a drumbeat within the earth. Their burnished armour shone with red fire in the waning light of the sun as it dipped lower towards the western horizon. At their head was a Dwarf of uncommon height, near half-a head taller than those who marched at his back. His armour was ornate, yet Harry could recognise the function in every feature, in every ridge and every curve there was the intent and design of a master craftsman.

Beside Harry were the principal leaders of Thráin's army. King Thráin, of course, stood in the centre, with Harry at his right hand and Náin, his cousin, upon his left. Then there was Nari, and Fundin too, and a few Dwarves of lesser lines. Haleth was there also, and beside him was Brytta who was his cousin, and who carried the Kings Banner. Finally, there was Elladan and Elrohir, though they were separated from the rest by a small measure of distance.

"Greetings and well met to our kin from distant mountains," Fundin proclaimed loudly as the newly arrived column came to a halt, and the beat of their march faded like distant thunder, the last few beats echoing weakly off the mountain that watched over them all.

"It seems we have arrived late to the battle," said the leader of the column. He sounded slightly disappointed by that fact, but soon cast it off for doubtless there would be many more battles to fight. "I am Gráni, son of Gráin who is King of Ironhaunt, and I come to honour the old alliances of our long kinship."

"Your support is gratefully received," said Thráin, taking over from Fundin. "I am Thráin, King of Durin's Folk. Beside me you will find Makhsûn, the Wizard, and Náin, Lord of Ironhills. There too is Nari of the Firebeards, and Haleth, King of the Riddermark and also the sons of Elrond; Elrohir and Elladan."

"Then this is an eminent alliance indeed," said Gráni as his dark eyes flickered rapidly over those assembled, assessing each in their turn. They lingered upon Haleth longer than any of the others. "Not for thousands of years has the world seen the like."

Something about how he said it, and the way in which his gaze idled upon Haleth moved Harry to speak. "Orcs and all the creatures of darkness are a blight upon all peoples. The Men of the Riddermark have long been allies to the Dwarves."

"So you say," said Gráni, seemingly accepting Harry's words. He inclined his head towards Haleth in grudging respect before he turned to Harry. "You are the one they call Darjûn, are you not?"

"That is how I was known by many in the East," Harry admitted. It had been a great count of years indeed since last he had travelled those lands. "How grow the Gardens of Ironhaunt?"

"Well, and strong," said Gráni, and beneath his thick beard and moustache, Harry saw his mouth curve into a thin smile. "The years have not been kind, least of all those since Lastûn left our mountains for his quest in the West, but no army can breach the Mekhem Fikhîb-Izrên and the legions of Ub-Khûn have long given up on trying."

It had been nearly 250 years since Saruman had come West, and in Harry's occasional meetings with him he had spoken only briefly of the situation in the East. It had been enough for Harry to get a sense of it, however. Just as Harry himself could see in his travels, darkness was growing at the edges of Middle-earth.

"Perhaps we can trade news later," said Thráin then. "You are surely weary after so long a journey, and must surely desire to join our camp, and to find rest."

"Thank you," said Gráni, offering Thráin a small bow. "With your leave, I will see to my Dwarves."

Thráin nodded, and Gráni turned to his assembled forces. He soon began rattling out commands, and they hastened to follow his commands with a competence that could only have been borne from a familiarity with war.

The hosts of the other Dwarf clans were by no means disorganised, for each had seen their own conflicts and difficulties in recent years, but none showed the same level of militarism that the Ironfists showed under the command of their Prince. Harry wondered just what mischance had befallen them that they had become so well acquainted with war, and the suffering it surely brought.

As the new host broke up, their tents already being erected with some impressive haste, the commanders of Thráin's forces also went their own way. Most returned to their own people, but Thráin caught Harry's eye, and Harry knew his presence was being quietly requested.

They made their way quietly through the camp until they came to the doors of Gundabad, which they walked through into the great entrance hall beyond.

In only two days, the Dwarves of Thráin's host had brought about an incredible change in the place. Gone was the filth and grime that had laid upon every surface, the legacy of the Orcs who had dwelt there so long. At the end of the hall, there was a doorway, the great doors that had once hung there were long gone, perhaps broken up to make weapons and armour. The room beyond, which had once been the receiving hall for the Lord who had dwelt there in the far-off days of the hold's glory, had been taken over to house Thráin's court.

So large was the room, and so scarce were the remaining fittings and adornments, that only a small corner of it had been prepared for his use, and the result was a tiny living space, lonely within the yawning vastness of the hall. It was like a child had taken up residence in the home of a giant.

"You are concerned about our newest ally," said Thráin as they crossed the wide open floor. "I would hear your thoughts, and what it is that has troubled you so soon after his arrival."

Harry frowned and glanced at Thráin, surprised that he would broach such a subject so brazenly. He had been perturbed, yes, by the attitude of the Prince of Ironhaunt, but that did not require the attention of the King. Thráin was watching him, eyes attentive, as if they were talking on some matter of great import.

"I would not say concerned," said Harry, though he was unsure how to best describe the sense he got, or if he should even state them. Gráni had marched many hundreds of miles, at the head of a host of Dwarves of rare scale and capability. Whatever misgivings he may harbour concerning the role of Men in their alliance, if indeed that was what Harry had seen, would surely not come to anything. "I merely noted the attention he paid to King Haleth, even above the sons of Elrond.

"I know that matters in the East are volatile, and in truth I am surprised that Ironhaunt chose to come to our aid in this matter given the steady rise of Ub-Khûn, but come they have, whatever their reasons. They are here, and I merely hope that their long wars with the Men of the East, who have been under the sway of the Enemy for many years, do not colour their relations with our allies. Our strength is surely in our unity, and I would not see that unity fractured."

Thráin listened in silence, nodding occasionally until Harry had finished speaking. "Your concerns do you credit," he said as he took a seat and gestured to another for Harry to do the same, "but I am left at a crossroads as to how to address them."

"There _are_ no issues to address," said Harry, frowning. Why was Thráin so intent on pursuing what amounted to little more than a momentary apprehension? "Not now, at least. Gráni is, by all accounts, a fair leader of his people, and an astute commander upon the battlefield. He will surely be a great boon to our efforts in this war. If the rumours I have heard of him are true then he will treat with the Éothéod as fairly as he deals with all others."

It had been less than two days since the chamber far beneath the mountain had been shown to the Lords of the Dwarves, and in that time Harry had seen an immediate change in how he was treated amongst them. He had always been held in regard, and treated with much respect and deference, but that had changed.

Before, he had still been one among many of Thráin's advisors. His word had held weight, yes, but that weight had been measured alongside all others. After the Lords had seen the chamber, which all had taken to calling Imhdum, the Creating Hall of Mahal himself, his word had come to be treated as some kind of holy writ, as if he spoke with the voice of the Valar themselves.

Harry was not deaf, nor was he stupid. He had heard the rumours that had spread throughout the camp like wildfire. In whispered voices they all asked the same thing, what truly was Harry?

He might have been able to ignore the new attention had it not been for one small thing. He himself had little idea of what the answer to that question may be. He was Harry, of course, a lost traveller in Middle-earth, long sundered from the place he had once called home, but what did that really mean? What was his purpose, his nature? That was something altogether different.

It was not a question that he had failed to consider in the long years since he had come to dwell in Middle-earth. So many years with only occasional companions meant there was often little else to consider but the world around him and his place within it, if indeed he had one. Even his name had become a rare thing, seldom heard upon the lips of those whom he met.

Was he truly Harry now, after 800 years so far from all that had made him the person he had once been? He had so many names. Makhsûn, Eardstapa, Gimilzubnu. It seemed everywhere he went, he was given a new one. He had been known by them for far longer than he had really been Harry.

Perhaps the Elves were closest to him in appearance, for even after so many years he had not aged in the way of Men. His hair had faded a little, his features had become a little sharper and more defined, but his skin still held strong to a youthful complexion even after it had seemed so thoroughly lost after his time imprisoned within the dungeons of Angmar.

Despite that, it was with Men that he most closely identified, and yet as the years had marched on, he had drifted ever further from them. He could not even recall the number of generations between Haleth and the brave and perhaps foolhardy Fram. How many children had been born, grown old, and died while he'd walked the wilds of Middle-earth?

The Dwarves were scarcely better in that regard, and yet Harry had found himself holding to a closer relationship with them. Perhaps it was the comforting constancy of their people.

Others would surely have counted him among the Istari and yet when he stood before Saruman he felt once again like a child. No matter how old he may become, no matter how much knowledge and ability he might gain, Saruman would always be more knowledgeable, and more wise. It had been long years since he had spoken with the Blue Wizards, who had remained in the East even after Saruman's return, but he could well remember the quiet wisdom of Rómestámo, and the veiled power of Morinehtar.

"Very well, then," said Thráin, pulling Harry from his thoughts. "I will do nothing for now on this, as you suggest. If you see anything else, I would ask you to bring it to me."

"Of course," he said, but he knew it was a lie. Unless there was something truly serious, Harry elected to say nothing at all. To have his words held in such esteem felt like a heavy burden indeed.

He took his leave then, and soon he found himself treading the already well-worn path down to the deep chamber. The tunnels that led to it had been paid special attention by the work-groups of Dwarves who'd been assigned to the seemingly endless task of washing away the Orcish filth. Within the first day, the whole length of it had been lit up with dwarvish lamps, and every one of them was maintained and refilled regularly to ensure that the path was always well lit.

As he made the slow descent, Harry passed by a number of Dwarves, and even a pair of Elves who were returning to the surface after descending to view that which was being called a wonder by their people.

Already, Harry knew, messengers had left to Rivendell and Lothlórien to bear news of the new white tree.

Only the men of the Riddermark had been left largely unawed. Harry had nearly broken out into laughter when he had heard two of their number whispering to each-other, questioning how long it would be until the tree withered and died in the darkness, for everyone knew that it needed to see the sun to flourish further.

It had not been long since the tree had flowered, but even so, were it in danger of fading in the darkness then surely it would already have shown some sign. Instead, it only looked more healthy; its blooms more luminous, and its leaves more lush. Harry was not sure from where it drew its sustenance, but it was clear it had little need of the sun.

In ages past, when the Two Trees had bloomed in Valinor, all of Middle-earth had been in darkness, lit only by the stars. In those far-off days, all that was green and growing had needed not the life-sustaining sun, so near was the memory of the powers that had birthed the world. Perhaps there, in that cave, so far from the world above, that had once maybe been the realm and home of Aule himself, that power was yet strong enough to sustain it.

The chamber, like the tunnels leading to it, had been lit up by the Dwarves, and the glittering walls of dark stone were like the walls of night, shimmering with stars. When Harry entered the chamber, he was met by the many who were already there. Everyone had their tasks and duties to attend to, but many chose to spend what free time they did have within the cavern.

Daewen was already there, sitting cross-legged before the tree as she stared up at it. Harry was not sure how long she had been sitting there, but she had not moved since last he had visited, more than a day previous.

At Harry's arrival, she stirred, and turned to meet his gaze.

"I have lived all my life hearing stories of the wonders that once existed West of the sea," she said, forgoing any greeting. "Of the Bells of Valmar, and the Pearls of Alqualondë. Arwen told me of the Lady Galadriel's memories of the Great Square of Tirion, where grows Galathilion, and I long dreamed of making the journey into the West to see it.

"I am not sure if I ever told you, but I planned to be away once the war with Angmar was done, more than 800 years ago. I thought, then, as we marched in war against that dark foe, that all that was good in Middle-earth was doomed to the same fate, however distant it might be."

"Why did you not leave, then?" Harry asked her as he lowered himself to the floor nearby to her. "Why have you lingered so long when so many of your kin have taken that journey?"

It was no small number who had taken that path, over the Straight Road, to Valinor in the years since Harry had first arrived in Middle-earth. He could still remember how busy the House of Elrond had been when he had resided there after his first ill-fated trip to Khazad-dûm. So many of those whom he knew then had left. Camaenor had gone west nearly 300 years ago, and so too had Caleniel and Elfaron near a century later. He wondered what it was that had kept Daewen in Middle-earth when so many of her kin were leaving. Soon, it seemed, the last homely house would lie empty.

"Perhaps it was more than one thing that caused me to stay," said Daewen, her voice thoughtful. "Arwen did not want me to leave, of course. She still loves Middle-earth dearly, and argued for me to remain for as long as she did. I think the greater reason, though, was you."

Harry blinked in surprise. "Me?"

"You," she said, and she smiled. "I saw you rise from that dungeon, and it seemed to me that there could have been nothing lowlier in all the pits of Udûn and yet you did not give up."

Those days would ever be etched into his memories. Though distance, and the long procession of the years had dulled them, he knew that he would never be completely free of them.

"I did give up," said Harry. It was not something he had admitted to many. Indeed, only Saruman had heard more than the briefest description of what he had endured in those terrible dungeons. "The first days I spent there felt like years, and I was there for months. I watched my body wither, and yet it never died. I thought it had been years, centuries since I had seen the sun, since I had known friendship, or even the least of kindnesses. I gave up, but even now I find I cannot fault myself for that."

"Yet, here you are now," said Daewen, and she shook her head as if she almost did not believe him. "Even on the day of your release from the tortures of the Witch King, you had hope. You stood before the greatest Lords of Men and Elves, and you were not bowed."

Harry stayed silent then. He was not sure that she had found the truth of it, but perhaps that did not matter. He had been unbowed not because of a hope for the future, but instead because he knew that nothing that might follow could be worse than what he had already endured. Even had he been returned immediately to his cell, and his confinement continued, he had _seen_ the world beyond the cell. He had known a brief time without suffering. There was a hope in that, in the knowledge that the world beyond not only existed, but did not share in his fate.

Unbothered by his silence, Daewen continued, "When I saw you, and I saw that strength, I was reminded of the histories I have so long been told. When I was younger, I would love to hear of Valinor, and the great works that had been created there. I would dream of one day seeing them, and I would weep to know that I would never see the Trees, as those who came before me did.

"Yet, after I met you, it was instead the stories of Middle-earth that held my attention the most. Not only Beleriand, though they were the stories most oft-told in the House of Elrond, but those that came before even them. Cuiviénen, and the cold pits of Udûn. Darkness once fell across the face of Middle-earth, and once it was thrown back, the Elves created wonders more beautiful than we had ever known before.

So I resolved to wait, and to watch," she said. "For if you could find a path back from the creature that was dragged out of the fetid pits of Carn Dûm, then surely there is a path back for us all, if we but have the strength to walk it. Even now, after so long, when I look at you, I can still see the echo of what you once were, that creature. I mourn for him still, yet that sorrow serves to make the transformation seem more wondrous. Perhaps, I thought, such a transformation is possible for the world which I have loved for so long."

She looked up at the tree, and Harry could see the stars of crystal reflected in her dark eyes. "Now I see that I was right to wait, for if I had left, I never would have seen this place."

Harry could not help but smile at the optimism in her voice. A memory came to him, then, of a time so distant that it was little more than the most distant of dreams and yet the words rang clear through the years. "Once, a teacher of mine told me that happiness can be found in even the darkest of places," he said. "All we need to do is remember to turn on the light."

"And here is the light," said Daewen.

"Perhaps," said Harry, "or perhaps it is merely an attempt at turning on the light. A tree, hidden far from the world is not going to beat back the darkness that threatens the world. The shadow that is rising in the East would descend upon this place like a dark sea upon a candle if the free peoples of Middle-earth do not fight to protect it."

"Then you sought to create a rallying place for Men, Elves and Dwarves?" Daewen asked. "I can see, perhaps, how that may work. This place is already revered above all others by the Dwarves, and the tree itself will surely draw Elves from all across Middle-earth to it. Men too, for it is of the line of the White Tree of Numenor, and perhaps greater than any of its sires."

Harry shook his head. He had not sought to create anything so grand or great. "I sought only to bring some life to a dead place," he admitted. "What has happened here is… I understand it little more than you do, in truth."

"Then perhaps, once this war is done, and the Mountain passes are safe, you should invite the Wise to this place," said Daewen. "For surely all of them would travel here, once they hear of what it is that you have created."

Surely Saruman would know what to make of it, or Galadriel. Elrond, perhaps, or even the Grey Wanderer, Gandalf. Harry himself did not know what to think, and the longer he sat in consideration, the less he seemed to know.

He had spent many long hours in counsel with Saruman, and there was little doubt in his mind that he would know what it was that had made such an impossible feat reality. Saruman, though, like every Istar Harry had known, seldom made clear his thoughts. Perhaps among the other Istari they spoke more frankly, but Harry often felt that they held back much of their knowledge.

Every time he saw Saruman, he saw a depth there, as if there was so much more to him than any mortal eye could perceive. his power was great, yes, but Harry's sense was that even that part of Saruman's power he had seen, impressive as it was, was dwarfed by the power of his true presence. For whatever reason, he kept that power veiled and hidden.

Once, Celeborn had spoken to him during one of his brief and infrequent visits to Lothlórien, and told him that the Istari were not to be followed, but always to be heeded. He said that their purpose in Middle-earth was to guide, and not to command, and that was why they kept so much of their power and might veiled.

Their purpose.

What, then, was Harry's purpose? He had not the wisdom of the Istari, or their endless knowledge of magic which, even after 800 years he could not truly approach in understanding. Yet he had a purpose. He knew it, but he did not know what it might be.

What was it he'd been told when he'd nearly died in the churning white waters beneath Khazad-dûm? Nothing ever ends, that each end is in fact merely the beginning of a new and winding road. What road had he been thrust out onto when he had come to Middle-earth? Perhaps more importantly, who was it that had spoken with him?

The Elves said the Powers who had once formed the world had departed, and after the War of Wrath, came never again to the mortal lands of Middle-earth, in fear of rending it asunder as they had in that great battle. Yet who else could that figure have been, but one of the Valar?

It had been no Istari, of that Harry was sure. The power that he'd felt from them was completely different, though perhaps he hadn't known it at the time. It was as if Saruman was a still lake, placid, and yet with unknowable depths hidden behind the mirror stillness. Morinehtar and Rómestámo were different too. One was like spring rains upon high mountains, while the other was as a cheerful brook, making its merry way to the sea, and yet together, Harry knew they surely could become an unstoppable torrent, with the power to cut its own path through earth and stone. The being he had met in the waters had been like an ocean, and made the Istari he knew appear to be little more than a puddle, or the smallest brook in comparison.

Ulmo, the Lord of Waters was surely the most likely possibility. Alone of all the Valar, it was said he had not sequestered himself away in Valinor. Though his voice was seldom heard, not since the ending of the First Age, when Beleriand was sunk below the sea by the warring powers, had he truly made himself known.

Why, then, would he choose Harry to meet, and to speak with? He had offered Harry the choice, then, to pass on or to continue, to take the road that had been stolen from him by the Witch King, or to continue upon his current course. To what purpose was Harry given that choice?

He remembered the name of Beren. The Man who had fallen in love with Lúthien, and who had been gifted a second chance at life, to spend with her whom he loved above all others. Did that gift have a purpose? On that, the old tales were silent. There was no guidance to be found there.

"It is not only this that I do not understand," said Harry, coming out of his contemplative silence. "I have searched Middle-earth for years, centuries even, and I have not understood even my most simple question."

Daewen turned her grey-eyed gaze upon him, and he felt the question there.

"Why am I here?" he said.

She frowned, and Harry thought it was because she did not understand the nature of his question. "You are here because you chose to be," she said, as if it were simple. "It is the same reason I am here, and the same reason all those who have joined in this war have come here."

"That is not what I meant," said Harry, shaking his head. He could not help but smile at the simplicity of the answer. "I wish to know why it is that I am here, in Middle-earth. Was it truly an accident of fate, or is it as I believe Lord Elrond thinks, that there is some deeper power at work?"

"I have seldom known Lord Elrond to be wrong," said Daewen. "In fact, I think it is only the Lady Celebrián and Arwen who may best him in a debate. Perhaps the Lady of the Golden Wood, too." She was quiet then, thinking about Harry's question, before she spoke again, "I am not counted among the Wise, but I wonder why it matters so much to you?"

Her question caught him unawares "What?" he asked.

"Your ultimate fate is hidden from you, as it is surely hidden from all of us," she said. "I know not what awaits me in our next battle, nor what may follow it. None of us do. Perhaps the Wise know, but I think that surely is a terrible fate. Is it not enough to simply be able to sit in a place of beauty, and to enjoy that which blooms in darkness, without worrying over the purpose or meaning of it?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but then, after a long moment of silence, closed it again. He wasn't sure what he'd been planning to say, but soon realised the truth hidden within her words.

During his time in Middle-earth he had heard all manner of tales. There were the stories of the First Age, and of Beleriand, and the heroes who had once walked that land which was now lost beneath the waves, and they were often told amongst the Elves, and the Men of the West, but they were not the only stories he had come to learn.

Every one of the groups of peoples he had encountered had their own stories, myths and legends. Every one of them had their own champions, their own tyrants, their own tragic heroes. From the Wains of Rhûn, to the tent-cities of Khand, to the ruined brass and gold towers of the distant Arzủbelrŏhin in the far flung south, to Imladris and the remaining Havens of Lindon.

In every place Harry had been, they had at least one story on the perils faced by those who either sought out or fled from their fate. In the north, that tale was of Túrin Turambar, the 'Master of Fate', who had battled against the fate that had been laid upon him by Morgoth's dark sorcery. In the end he had lost everything, and in his battles against that fate he had brought low all whom he loved.

Then there was the story of Varraga of Khand, called the Fortunate One, who had been fated from birth to bring about the freedom of his people from the tyranny of the people who had enslaved his people. Despite that, his title had proven untrue. His life had seen nought but one tragedy after another, seemingly endless in their cruelty and variety. His mother, father, sister, daughter, all had died before him, as he pursued the destiny for which he was meant to be fated. In the end, he, too, had died. Broken and alone, it was only in death that his final doom had been shown to be true.

Why, then, was he so intent upon knowing his own fate? Did he wish to seek it, to see it done with all the speed he could muster, as had Varraga? Or did he wish to fight it, to take his own path, unencumbered by whatever doom the fates had woven for him, like Túrin?

Would either of those courses lead him true? He leaned back on his arms, and stared into the ghostly blossoms of the tree overhead, and the glittering stars beyond. Perhaps Daewen was right. Perhaps it was time he stopped in his search, and instead sought to find his own purpose.

There was a long silence between them then, and it was a comfortable one, as they both were lost in their own thoughts.

"Tell me, then," he eventually said, "of Imladris, and all I have missed there in my time away."

Daewen stirred from her deep thought. "Much has changed, and yet much has stayed the same," she said quietly. "With each year, the voices in the valley grow fewer, and those that remain think all the more of joining them on the Westward Road. Yet still, the air is sweet, and the waters run clear as glass. Arwen still sings in the valley, and the birds still join her."

A smile grew upon Harry's face as he thought back to those days he had spent in Imladris, for truly they had been amongst the happiest of all of the days he had spent in Middle-earth. As he lay back once again, and listened to Daewen tell him all those who had come and gone to the House of Elrond, he closed his eyes.

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but as unseen eddies rustled the leaves of the tree overhead, he heard, hidden within the sound, the distant music of Arwen's voice, joined by the golden burble of winter streams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arzủbelrŏhin is meant to be a mutation of Azrubêlôhîn which is Adunaic for "Child of Earendil" (adding the Ar- prefix to make it a city). It is non-canon, and I imagine it as a Numenorean colony much further south than Umbar.
> 
> Varraga is also completely made up. I imagine him as being a cultural hero for the Variags of Khand. Additionally, Mankhad is also made up, but incorporates elements of 'manar' in Quenya, meaning 'fate', or 'fortune'.


	32. But the War Continued Still

In dreams, Harry was free. He could ride upon the currents of the smallest brook, and follow the crystal waters all the way out to sea. He could drift upon the breeze, or slide down faults in the stone beneath his feet.

Wings of thought bore him high over dark mountains. The moon was waning, and cast only a faint light over the land. Snowy mountaintops were little more than ghosts in the darkness, and soon were borne back into distant darkness. Faster and faster they slipped by, silent as a breathless wind, until he saw three more rear up high in the darkness, and beyond them a dark shape nestled in their shadow.

Then, from the south there came a voice. He could not hear it, for his ears lay still safe within his tent upon a rocky mountain-side, but he knew the words it spoke.

"You have drifted far," said the voice. He could not recognise the speaker, for the voice in his mind was alike to nothing he had ever known. There was a familiar power there, perhaps, but the source of that familiarity slipped through his grasp like water. "It is not wise to separate spirit and body at such a great distance."

Beneath pale moon and glittering stars, Harry stopped and tried to answer. Yet, his mouth resided also in the mountain valleys far to the north, and he could make no sound. He wanted to ask who it was that was speaking to him, but silence was his only response.

"Once, perhaps, it would have been safe to travel the world as you do now, but the days grow ever darker," said the voice, and Harry could feel the ominous note of prophecy in its tone. "You should return to yourself, for if you do not then senses far more terrible than mine will surely come to be aware of you so near to their domain."

As the voice spoke once more, Harry's attention was drawn to a light that had sprung into being atop the mountaintop below. It was little more than an orange spark, and yet it drew him closer. As he drifted lower, the spark kindled and grew into a flame. Soon, distant though it was, he could feel the heat of it.

"No!" said the voice, and Harry's attention was pulled from the growing flame to a new light, which shone clear and white from the dark shadow beneath the mountains.

As both lights grew in intensity, the voice spoke once more: "Remember yourself, Harry Potter. Remember who you _are_ or risk learning the suffering of the first-born."

He drifted in the darkness for what could have been seconds, or minutes, or hours, as he tried to comprehend those words. Harry was who he was, of course. And yet Harry was also confined to the ground, asleep upon an uncomfortable bedroll, surrounded by an army of thousands. Harry could not fly upon the breeze, or drift upon the eddies of the world.

The heat upon his formless senses continued to grow. Though the cooling light of the unknown voice was a salve, it could not wholly vanquish the burning warmth of the glowing flame. It felt like rage, so long undirected, but now focused upon him and it began to burn.

Had he hair, it would have curled and charred. Had he still skin it would have bubbled and flaked. He had neither of those things, and yet the pain still came.

Then the voice spoke one last time, and no longer was it soft, veiled power and silk. Now it was iron-hard and commanding. "Harry. Awaken!"

Unseen power struck him, and it was as if a great spring had been released. It snapped back, and so too did he. Before the mountains had swum by beneath him, now they flashed by, too quick to follow.

"Harry, awaken!" said another voice, and this time his sluggish mind did recognise it, for it was Daewen, and he heard it through the earthly manner that had so long been familiar to him. "There is an attack being readied in the night. You are needed. Harry?"

Harry's eyes snapped open at last, and he saw Daewen's head poking through the flap of his tent, her expression hidden in darkness, and yet Harry already knew the worried expression it surely bore.

"I'm awake," he said as he pulled the thin blanket off and reached for his sword and staff. "Has Thráin been awoken too?"

"Elladan and Elrohir both are bearing the scouts' news to him," said Daewen, nodding and stepping into the tent now that Harry was upon his feet.

"How many are they?" he asked as he tightened the belt which bore his sword in a simple loop of leather. "From where do they come?"

"A few thousand, perhaps," Daewen answered, as she shifted impatiently upon her feet. "We outnumber them, but they have climbed up from the cliffs on the western side of the camp."

Harry immediately saw the reason for her concern. As the army marched south to the next lost hold, it had camped upon a fairly narrow promontory which extended out from the mountainside. It was bordered on one side by a sheer drop into the valley below, and on the other by a steep slope of heavy scree that would be impossible to pass for all but those of Elvish grace.

As such the defences for the camps were primarily around the two narrow approaches, to the fore and to the rear. Harry's own tent was near the cliff, as was Thráin's and many of those in the King's closest counsel.

It was not hard to see why the goblins might have chosen that moment to attack. The army had been split almost in half to traverse the Southward Way. King Haleth and his riders could not navigate the high, rocky paths of the Way, and had been forced to take a lower, longer route. A contingent of Dwarves had joined them, led by Nari, to ensure their safe passage through the mountains.

He darted by Daewen and out into the night beyond. The camp was well lit by fire and by brazier, though only a watchful few had remained awake to tend them. Concealed by the mountains that blocked the eastwards view, the horizon was surely starting to blaze with the brilliance sun, soon-to-rise.

"How long do we have?" Harry asked Daewen as he started jogging in the direction of Thráin's tent.

Her eyes turned towards the cliff edge that was not so very far away. In the darkness, Harry could make out little, but her eyes saw through it with ease. "Some have made the precipice," she said, her gaze scanning back and forth, "though they yet remain in waiting. Doubtless they wish for greater numbers to join them, but they could attack at any moment."

Without stopping, Harry turned away from the tents, and instead started running, faster now directly towards the cliff-edge. The camp was being slowly roused, but they needed more time to form up. "We need to buy them more time!" he said to Daewen as she ran behind him.

As they ran, Harry reached out with his staff to touch each and every tent they passed. When it touched, the tents started to ring like warning bells, rousing all those nearby from their slumber. "To arms!" Harry cried for all to hear, uncaring that the Goblins too might also hear him.

Their sight in the dark was every bit as clear as that of the Elves, and there was little chance that the host of the Dwarves could be assembled without them seeing. They had not the time for secrecy.

Soon he neared the closest point of the cliff-edge, and against the deep darkness beyond he could see inky silhouettes pulling themselves silently over the lip. There were dozens of them, then hundreds. As Harry looked down the length of the cliff and the camp, he realised that more than a thousand goblins had made the climb, and more still were rising from out of the dark abyss that was the valley below.

He swept his staff in a wide arc, and it flashed a brilliant white, the spider-web filigree blooming in the dark. A wall of wind threw the nearest goblins back, and the silence of their attack was broken by their cries of surprise. Soon those cries disappeared over the cliff-edge, and were lost upon the winds that scoured the valley-edges.

Yet silence did not fall again. Instead, new cries went up as the assembled goblins realised their concealment was at an end, and their wordless howls filled the night. Horns, rough and terrible, sounded in their dozens all along the cliff-edge, echoing off the mountains beyond, and the goblins charged forward towards the camp.

A small clear border had been left between the outermost tents and the cliff edge, for fear that the unstable face might collapse beneath them, but it was no more than a dozen metres. It was only seconds before the goblins were amongst the camp. Worse, though, was that the echoes of the horns did not abate.

There were more upon the scree-slopes above the camp.

With the goblins already upon him, Harry didn't have time to see more than that. Mere seconds before the first of the charging enemy reached him, he slid the sword from his belt, and raised it to meet the crude, curved blade sweeping towards him.

Fearsome though goblins weapons were, their primitive metallurgy stood no chance against Anguirel. The black blade of meteoric iron, forged in the first age by perhaps the greatest weaponsmith of the Elves, sliced through the pot-iron of the goblin's sword, and deep into the creature's rib-cage. Perhaps it was the surprise of it, but the goblin did not die immediately and instead clutched at Harry even as the strength went from its limbs.

Another attacker lunged at him, but fell to the ground at his feet, the shining tip of an arrow protruding from one destroyed eye. Behind the felled goblin, Daewen caught his eye even as she started readying another arrow.

There was no time for words. In the time it had taken them to fell two, a dozen more had taken their place. Harry spun, ripping his sword free from the dead goblin. As he spun he brought his staff around, and there was a flash of light in the darkness as it hit another goblin over the head, throwing it into two others and sending them tumbling.

Moments later, both tripped goblins joined their fellow in death, an arrow embedded in each of their skulls.

A group of goblins were approaching Daewen from the side, and she whirled around, sending an arrow into their midst as she did, but they did not stop. Harry brought his staff around, and filled his mind with the beauty that he had seen reflected in the cave beneath Gundabad. Light erupted from his staff, powerful enough to blind him, and yet it did not. He could see clearly through the night as the beam of pure light landed on the goblins. As one, they cried out in terror and pain, and their charge was broken.

Their fight was not going unnoticed. Around them many Dwarves had started to gather. Each of them roused from their dreams by his shouting, and drawn to the sound and light of their fight. They descended upon the broken goblin charge, axes flashing in the rapidly dwindling light.

"The King!" cried one of the Dwarves, and it took Harry only a moment to recognise the speaker as Thorin. "Where is the King?"

"He was roused," Daewen shouted back, her voice cutting through the din with ease. "The sons of Elrond will be by his side."

Thorin did not look comforted by that knowledge, but there was little more he could do than accept it, for another attack was soon upon them.

Axe, sword and arrow flashed in the darkness, and more goblins fell before them until soon the fighting began to die down. There was still no shortage of foes, but their group had grown to such a level that few were willing to attempt such a foolhardy attack.

"We need to find the King," said Harry as the fighting moved further away once again. The clash of steel, and cries of Dwarf and Goblin could be easily heard, but it was not so close now that they needed to shout to be heard. "His tent was not so far, and it worries me that I have seen no sign of him in this battle."

"King Thráin was called out to some issue at the northern end of the camp," said one of the Dwarves that had rallied to them. "I know not what it was concerning, but I saw him leave shortly before the alarm was raised."

That was a small salve upon Harry's worries. Had the King still been in his tent when their attackers had fallen upon them, then surely they would have come upon him. However, if he was not at his tent, then it was possible that warning of the attack did not reach him in time. What then had become of the sons of Elrond?

"Thorin, Daewen, with me," said Harry, already moving in the direction of the drop-off. He pointed at a dozen of the Dwarves that had gathered to him. "You all too. We move north along the cliff edge. We will see if we can reach the King easier that way. The rest of you, gather up any more warriors you can find and make for the eastern slopes. I fear that the battle may have gone worse for us there than here."

None raised any objection to his plan, and the Dwarves split off exactly as commanded.

"Watch for fire from the mountainside," Harry called to the other group as they moved off. "Goblin bows may be short in range, but with the height advantage, they will still be dangerous."

He hoped they took his advice, but he had concerns of his own. He and his company ran through the clear ground between the edge of the encampment and the cliff. Those few Goblin stragglers that remained were quickly dispatched by Daewen's bow before the company even had to slow.

As they made their way along the cliff, Harry realised that many ropes had been secured into cracks in the stone. A few still had Goblins making the climb, and they were soon cast down screaming to the distant valley floor. It quickly became apparent as they moved further northwards that the bulk of the attacking goblins had made the climb there.

There was little value to them in attacking the northern end of the camp. The climb was, if anything, even harder than to the south, and yet attack in the north they had. Perhaps it was their natural predilection to treachery that had seen them opt to attack towards the rear of the army as it made its way south.

Regardless of the reason for it, they soon found far more goblins still upon the ropes. There were even a few who were climbing the bare stone, like fell spiders they held fast to the broken stone through some means unknown to Harry. The groups of Dwarves who had formed up to repel the attacks also looked different. They were smaller in number, and Harry could tell by their tired movements that it had not been an easy night for them.

So, though they could not delay in trying to reach the King, Harry did what he could to help them. Without breaking stride, he spun his staff around and touched the mithril tip of it to the earth as he ran. After a good distance, he turned once more, and reached out to the stone to be heard.

The cliff-face was craggy and inhospitable, and yet the Goblins climbed over it like ants atop a mound. Like a grumpy old man, it wished for nothing more than to send them away and Harry's whispers lent it the power it needed to do just that.

A great cracking noise rent the night, and where Harry had run his staff a cleft opened in the rock, and extended even further, all down the cliff-face in both directions.

"Away from the cliff!" Harry called, though it was unnecessary. A moment later, the entire cliff-edge came away in a great slab, and all down the valley it was repeated even into the distant darkness beyond Harry's sight.

The thunder of falling earth and stone drowned out everything else. Harry was sure that he would not even have been able to hear himself had he shouted, but the tumult soon faded enough that he could hear the swearing of the Dwarves who accompanied him.

It seemed as if the distant roar of tumbling death would last forever, but eventually the night became silent once more. Harry did not know if the sound had simply deafened him, or if the battle was beginning to wane, but he pressed onwards.

"There!" said Daewen, pointing away from the new, closer, cliff face and into the camp. Harry turned to look in the direction she pointed, but could see nothing but broken tents and a few Dwarves and Goblins rejoining battle after the surprise of Harry's most recent spell. "The King's standard is flying there. It looks like they are still under the arrows of the Goblins upon the mountainside."

No command was needed. Thorin and his company, each of them breathing hard from the run, turned in the direction Daewen had pointed, and together they all pushed through the sporadic fighting towards the King's standard.

The group of Dwarves that had gathered there was large, but it was easy to see that many had been injured. The arrows of the Goblins above were only rarely able to find a weak-point in the armour of the Dwarvish warriors, but enough had been fired that more than a few had found some mark.

Náin, cousin to the King, and Lord of Ironhills stood in the centre of the formation, booming out orders to all who would listen.

"Shields! Shields to the east," he roared in a voice loud enough to carry over the cries of the wounded, and the clashing of steel and clank of armour. "Any newcomer with a shield, join with one who has none. Those arrows are still coming in!"

When Harry and his group reached the King's company, Harry realised how badly they'd had it.

Some nefarious mind was behind the goblins' attack. Somehow they had managed to move their forces into position, unseen by the ever vigilant Elves who tirelessly scouted the ground ahead of the army's march. Not only that, but their attack was much heavier in the area of the camp which Thráin had been called to. By their numbers, they had never had much chance of defeating the Dwarvish host, but that had clearly not been their intent.

They had sought to kill the King, for surely they hoped that his host would melt away like morning dew. It was perhaps the greatest strategic failing of the Enemy, that though they might have great cunning and malice, rarely could they fathom the thoughts of their foes. Their plan surely would not have worked as they hoped; Thorin would not have hesitated to take up his father's war, and his allies would not have abandoned him after such a blow. It would have served only to strengthen their resolve.

"Where is my father?" Thorin's voice, stronger and more authoritative than Harry had ever known it rung across the field. "Where is the King?"

As Thorin was led away by another Dwarf, his company surrounding him with their shields held high, protecting their prince from harm, Harry turned his own attention to the battle at hand.

Even as he watched, another flurry of arrows fell upon the defenders. Most of them missed their marks, for goblins made poor marksmen, but there were enough that Harry saw at least one more Dwarf struck down. As he heard the arrows pelt down around him, he realised that he was exposed, away from the main shield wall that was making its slow and arduous and costly advance towards their distant attackers. Daewen, her sharp eyes able to pick out the paths of the incoming missiles, sidestepped one that would have hit her in the chest.

Less than a second later she had unslung her bow, and returned an arrow of her own into the darkness. Harry did not need to be able to see their foe to know that her shot had found its mark. She seldom missed.

Moments later, two Dwarves broke away from the perimeter, each holding a long shield, almost as tall as them.

"Take cover!" one said urgently.

Harry did not need to be told twice, and darted behind the relative safety of the Dwarf's shield. Daewen did the same, but not before she loosed another arrow into the darkness.

"Great Wizard," said the Dwarf who had offered Harry the protection of his shield. His dark hair and short, braided beard was familiar, though Harry could not place him. "What are we to do?"

It was clear that Náin's strategy was one of attrition. Their defensive perimeter was strong, and the number of goblins attacking on the ground had fallen away to almost none after Harry had collapsed the cliff on the western side of the camp. Harry heard him give the command to start moving up, in the direction of their remaining attackers.

It would be better, though, if they did not have to worry about the incoming fire. Perhaps there was something Harry could do about that.

"Follow Náin's command," said Harry as he began to focus on the harsh wind which had long scoured that barren mountainside, "but stay close to me. I am going to see if I can grant us some respite."

With that said, he returned his sword to its place at his waist, and placed both hands upon his staff. He raised it high over his head and into the air. There was a small chance that one of the incoming arrows might hit his exposed hands, but it was simply a risk he had to accept.

He then released his mind into the same air currents that had borne him south in his dreams, only this time he did not ride them south. Instead, he let them bear him upwards, until the Dwarvish camp was nothing more than countless pinpricks of light upon a black firmament. Then he felt something more. Quietly, beyond the sight and knowledge of the attacking goblins, the sons of Elrond and a small company of Elves had gained the upper slopes. As soon as they saw their opening, they would surely rain death down upon the goblins.

Harry would give them that opening. So high up, the strong winds were even more powerful. Even the Great Eagles would struggle in such winds, and Harry called to them, and drew them to him. His voiceless words drew the winds in, and a great gale grew up around his disembodied awareness, spinning and swirling into a vortex, hidden amongst the thick clouds.

Then Harry returned to himself. He felt as light as a feather, and could feel the very eddies in the air as they toyed with the free edges of his clothes. He brought his staff down in a single, smooth motion, and with it came the winds.

The corralled winds howled and bayed in the night as they found themselves constrained between the stone fences of the valley sides. Like a wild animal, it tore at the walls that confined it, and the goblins that had set themselves upon it.

The sound of it filled the night, drowning out all others. Harry had never known a hurricane, or a tornado, but he imagined they did not sound so different to what he had called down upon the enemy on the mountainside. The rage of the winds was so great that it took all of his focus to direct them away from his allies. The Dwarves below, and the Elves above. He hoped that none of them tried to advance too close to the wild winds. He was not sure he would be able to save them from the wind's wrath if they did.

As the winds scoured the lower slopes, the Dwarves around Harry soon realised that the arrows had stopped. Even those goblins who were able to find shelter from the vicious winds could do little more than wait them out, but most were not so lucky.

The winds lasted only for a minute or two, but that was long enough. Hundreds of goblins had been ripped from the mountain face, lifted high into the air before being released from the gale's hold. None of those who were picked up survived the fall, and those who did manage to keep their feet upon the ground were soon picked off by the Elves further up the mountainside.

With that, the battle was largely done. The few goblins who remained, soon realised that their assault had failed utterly, and every one of them tried to flee into the darkness which had birthed them. Very few managed to make good their escape. The arrows of the Elves, and the pursuit of the Dwarves saw to that.

A cheer went up from the beleaguered Dwarves when they realised that the battle had been won. Soon, though, it died away, for it was clear to all that the toll of the dead would be worse than their previous battle.

Even before the cheer had died away, a Dwarf ran up to where Harry was standing. He called out to Harry: "Darjûn! The King has been injured."

"Where?" Harry asked, but the Dwarf had not heard him.

Already, he had turned to lead Harry to the King, waving him onwards with great urgency. With Daewen close upon his heels, it was not far to the place where Thráin had been hidden away. One of the many tents had been commandeered for his use, and was surrounded by Dwarves bearing tall shields.

Harry was ushered through the closely packed Dwarves, still alert for any threat that might come, and into the tent.

It was clear that the battle had, at some point, come to the tent, for the whole interior was in disarray. Not only that, but the small space was packed. With the exception of Náin, who still commanded outside, most of Thráin's council was present, so far as Harry could see, and they were all locked in a dozen different heated arguments.

The interior of the tent was so busy, that Harry could not even see where the King had been laid.

"Where is Thráin?" Harry asked, but his attempt to be heard over the din was insufficient. His voice was almost completely drowned out by the shouting that filled the tent.

So Harry rapped his staff upon the ground smartly, and from his staff a great peal sounded, long, deep, and true. Instantly, silence fell within the tent, and the only noise to be heard was the sound of frantic activity outside.

"Where is Thráin?" Harry asked again, this time his voice much softer, and yet time amid the shocked silence he got his response.

The crowds parted, with only a few muttered words being spoken by the Dwarves there, and Harry's eye at last found the King, laid upon a partially broken camp-bed. He was lying awkwardly, half on his side and half on his front. A long, black-shafted arrow with dirty fletching stuck out from his back at an awkward angle, buried in the gap beneath his spaulder.

Quickly, Harry made his way to the King's side, and knelt to get a better look at the injury. It did not look altogether deep, but it was in a dangerous location. More concerning, however, would be the goblin poison that was surely upon the arrow-head. It would already be taking root in Thráin's flesh.

Harry looked up when he felt himself jostled by the crowd of Dwarves who were clustering around, each trying to gain a better view.

"Everyone out," said Harry, and his tone of voice brooked no argument. He turned his gaze to Fundin. "I need the supplies from my tent," he said. "Whatever can be salvaged, if the battle destroyed it."

As the thronging Dwarves hastened to obey, Fundin nodded. He grabbed his son, and another Dwarf whom Harry did not recognize before heading out to complete his assigned task. A momentary silent glance to Daewen had her following Fundin too. Harry hoped they were quick. He carried a few mixtures and ingredients with him at all times, but with the battle coming as such a surprise, most of it had been left behind in his tent.

"What casualties?" Thráin asked. His voice was strained, but still strong. He was not yet old by the count of Dwarves, just 150 if Harry's memory served, and his people were a hardy sort. The injury should not be life-threatening, if he could counteract the poison quickly.

"I do not know," said Harry, as he felt carefully around the wound. He drove his staff into the ground at his side, and with a whispered word the tent was lit up by a warming light. "There must have been some undiscovered goblin hole nearby. Surely they would not have attacked us so boldly if we were not close to one of their lairs."

Travellers through the High Pass, perhaps a few days to the south, had spoken of Goblin raids but none had thought they would be able to muster the numbers to contest the Dwarf army's crossing of the Southwards Way. It seemed they had been mistaken, and that their mistake had been a costly one.

"Much of the attack was focused on the rear," said Harry. He looked closely at the wound, and was gratified to see that it was shallow as he hoped. It might even be possible, with some effort and care, to remove the arrowhead. Despite the disadvantage that it gave them in battle against opponents armoured like Dwarves, they could not resist the cruel urge to use the most wickedly barbed arrowheads they could forge. "Even here, though, I do not think it went too poorly for us. Your people are disciplined, even in the face of a surprise attack."

Thráin coughed, then grimaced in pain. The shock of it certainly wouldn't help his wound. "Not only on the rear, but on me," he said, and Harry could hear the edge of anger in his tone. "I was not far from the eastern slopes when they launched their attack. More than one good Dwarf surely died in our efforts to get into more cover. They are a cunning foe indeed.

"They freed the pack ponies in the night, when our guards were not watching," Thráin continued. "I thought it was merely a mischance. Goblins would surely have killed the creatures, and yet these did not. There was an uncommon cunning behind this attack."

The arrowhead would need to be removed, Harry decided. He could scour it of all Goblin foulness and leave it in, but it's position would surely cause the King discomfort when he moved. Better it be experienced in the safety of his tent than upon the battlefield. He pulled out a simple potion: a mild numbing draught.

"Uncommon or no," said Harry as he carefully spread the salve around the King's wound. "They have tipped their hand. Before this, we knew of no large goblin settlements in this part of the mountains. We will find them."

The numbing potion quickly took effect, and Thráin untensed as much of the pain he was experiencing melted away. Then, quickly and without warning, Harry tore the arrow from him, and pressed a clean linen against the wound to staunch the resulting blood flow.

Thráin barely seemed to feel it as the arrow was pulled from his side. Whether that was thanks to Harry's numbing concoction, or the King's own anger, Harry did not know. "We will find them, and they will answer for the blood they have spilled here. By the Axe of Durin I swear it."

Harry did not doubt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to clear up here. The Southward Way is not in any canon source, but I have added it as an overland, fairly hard-to-traverse path running down a section of the Misty Mountains just north of the High Pass. It is an old Dwarven Way that has been left pretty much unused after the Holds in that region of the mountains were overrun.
> 
> One of the reasons this chapter was a little delayed was that I was intent on completing the finishing touches for my newest story, Toppling Heroes. It's a HP/DC Superheroes crossover, and a sequel to my previous HP/DC story, Kicking Gotham. Kicking Gotham is complete and posted, while Toppling Heroes will be seeing weekly updates until it is all posted but so that it writing those doesn't impact SoA too much, I made sure to pre-write them. As a result there's zero chance of Toppling Heroes not seeing its conclusion.
> 
> If you've enjoyed what I'm doing here, maybe you'd like to take a look at those two stories too. HP/DC is an under-loved crossover category, but I'm doing what I can to write some of the kind of stories I'd love to see more of. Both can be found on my profile.


	33. And Shadows in the Dark Conspired

The Battle of the Cliff, as the Dwarves had come to call it, was the most costly victory of the campaign so far. Even the battle before Mount Gundabad, and the scouring that followed, had not exacted such a toll on the allied forces. Certainly none of the more minor skirmishes that had since followed had seen such a loss of life.

More than three hundred Dwarvish dead, and twice that again wounded. It was a heavy price for their passage south through the mountains, but the cost to the Goblin attackers had been great indeed.

When light had at long last returned to the mountainside, the distant sun peaking over the high mountaintops which flanked them, it had revealed the true scale of the goblin force. Their dead lay strewn across the rocky mountainside in their thousands, and more still had surely been cast from the clifftops, or crushed beneath the great rock-fall.

An unlucky few had survived.

"They speak of a Goblin den larger than any others known in this part of the Mountains," said Fundin to the assembled commanders of the Dwarvish host. "Goblin town, they call it."

"Then we must scour it of their filth!" said Náin as he beat his fist upon the camp table around which they all were gathered. Harry looked around the table, and saw that most who were gathered there were of the same mind.

"It is likely that their strength is already spent," said Nari, with a shake of his head, "And the stone of these mountains is poor indeed. There is little to be gained here, save wasted time and lives."

"Little to be gained?" Náin asked, eyes wide. "If we leave even a few behind, they will be like rats in the grain store. Goblin town would be a festering boil in the middle of our restored holds."

Thorin, who had not left Thráin's side since the battle, lent his voice to Náin's. "If we left them be, then all those who died here will have died for nought," he said. Unlike Náin, he kept his voice calm and level.

"We must also consider Haleth and his riders," said Fundin. "They will expect us at the valley of Shâlak-zamr before the Moon of Few rises. Should we remain here to ensure none remain within Goblin town then we will be at least a week late to our meeting."

"Bah," said Gráni with a dismissive flick of his braided beard. "What harm a few days when there are goblins to kill. They are likely to be late to the valley too. The storms three days past will surely have slowed them more than they did us. The ford is sure to be impassable in the floods."

"Have our prisoners told us where Goblin town is located?" Harry asked, breaking his silence. It was a habit that he had adopted when it had become clear just how much weight his opinions were given in matters of strategy.

"If they have not already, then surely they will," said Náin with absolute certainty. "Goblins are a cowardly lot when they do not have the upper hand."

Harry restrained the grimace that threatened to overtake his face at the thought of just what the questioning entailed. He held no sympathy for goblins; even though it had been many long years since his time in the dungeons of Carn Dûm, he could still well remember the casual cruelty every one of their race had shown.

Despite that, it was his time in Carn Dûm that also gave him pause. He knew torture and suffering, and seeing it meted out upon any being, even those as wholly debased as the Goblins surely were, conjured dark memories that he much preferred to avoid. The wailing and panicked cries of the Goblins, even when they were not being put to question, was enough to draw forth memories of the sound, and the despair, of the Witch King's dungeons.

"My brother leads our scouts in searching for any sign of where this nest may be," said Elrohir. "It is ill news that so great a number of Goblins went unnoticed so close to Imladris."

"Hrm," said Nari, though his grunt was not nearly so dismissive as it might have been a few weeks before. "Perhaps if your father ever chose to bestirr himself, then that would not be so."

Despite the seemingly harsh words, Elrohir merely accepted them gracefully. "It has been a long count of years since the strength of Imladris has been enough to reach much beyond the borders of my father's realm," he said lightly. "We do what we can to thin the beasts when they venture too close, but we have long been largely without allies in this fight. The Dúnedain of Arnor are fewer even than we. Arathorn and his people have been hard-pressed for a great count of years. Arathorn's father was killed just two winters past by trolls who descended from the Ettenmoors to menace villages along the banks of the Mitheithel."

It spoke to the softening that had occurred between many of the Dwarves and their new Elvish allies that Nari did not offer a rejoinder. Instead, he merely harrumphed and said: "Either way, it will not be long before we find the nest."

"I would like to send word to my father, in Imladris," said Elrohir, after the noises of quiet agreement had abated. "As I said, news such as this would be of great import to him, and it is likely that he may wish to offer further aid in the coming fight, if we intend to drive the Goblins from this place. Certainly, he should ready his defenses in case any choose to flee westwards."

"If we allow any of them to flee at all," said Náin, which prompted a few of those present to beat the table with much enthusiasm.

"There is little chance that we will be able to contain them all," said Fundin, pouring water over that fire. "It is likely that their burrows extend far beyond what we could hope to cover."

"And a caged beast fights all the more ferociously," Harry added. "Better that they have some way to escape, lest they fight us to the last in their desperation. Elrohir is right though, we should send word to Lord Elrond of the possibility that he will see more Goblins on his borders once they are driven from here. We also should send messengers east, to the Riddermark. I think it is Brytta's son, Walda who is Lord of Stanbrycg in his absence."

"Perhaps that will not be needed," said Gráni. "It is possible that this Goblin nest of which the prisoners speak is already empty of their ilk. Their numbers in the battle were great after-all. Would it not be most wise to wait until we know the extent of their tunnels? We have already scoured a handful of holds of their presence, and on none of those occasions did we allow enough to escape to threaten those who dwell in the lower valleys."

Harry shook his head, not convinced. "In all those cases, we were meeting them in Dwarven delvings, and we knew all but a few small entrances to the tunnels. If this is a Goblin-hewn cave, it will not be orderly corridors and grand halls. It will be a maze of passages and switchback shafts, and we will have scarce chance indeed of uncovering every one of their burrows."

It was at that moment that he heard Daewen's call from outside the tent. A moment later, she was ushered in.

"We have found an entrance to what looks like it may be a large cave network, not much further down the valley," she said without any preamble. While she was looking at Thráin when she said it, her gaze also passed over Harry and Elrohir. "Elladan is exploring the area further to see if we might locate any other entrances, but it is clear that it has been used very recently indeed."

"Was there any sign that the entrance was being watched?" asked Elrohir.

Daewen shook her head. "None. In fact, apart from the trails left by the Goblins, there was nothing to suggest that it was anything more than an ordinary cave," she said.

"That is unusual," said Harry, frowning in thought. Most Goblin nests that Harry had ever encountered were surrounded by mounds of filth. "Have any of the Goblins who were captured said anything about who it is that leads them?" he asked.

"They call their leader the Great Goblin," said Fundin, clearly unsure what to make of the title. "One called him 'The Tremendous One', and they claimed that he would stamp our armies to dust."

That drew more than one chuckle from the Dwarves. The very idea of it was preposterous.

The Goblins of the Misty Mountains had for long years bred smaller, weaker and even more cowardly than most others of Orcish stock. That was the reason why they were so often called Goblins, for to compare an Orc of Mordor to a Goblin of the Misty Mountains was almost akin to comparing a Halfling to a Man, only, of course, Goblins had none of the redeeming features that Halflings enjoyed.

Those that had come to infest Moria were larger than any other of their ilk in the Misty Mountains, but even they were dwarfed by those who could be found beyond the Ephel Dúath.

Yet the same breed they were still. It was not altogether impossible that there was in Goblin Town a Goblin of stature akin to the Orcs of Mordor, or perhaps he had even hailed from Mordor originally. If he was, then he was not alone in that. Azog, the Orc-Chieftain of Moria, and the one who was responsible for the current war, was said to have a stature greater than any other of his kin in the North.

"Then let us ready our forces," said Thráin, his dark eyes serious beneath thick eyebrows. "We will attack before nightfall comes, lest we give them a chance at slinking away in the darkness."

o-o

To call what had passed that evening a battle would be no small overstatement. Either the Goblins who had once dwelt in Goblin Town had already fled in the face of the coming Dwarves, through ways and means unknown to any of the allies, or Harry had underestimated just how many of their number had been culled in the battle.

There had been no more than a few hundreds who had tried to stand against the Dwarves when they had advanced on the caves. After a short but brutal skirmish, they had been scattered, and the Dwarves had gained entry to the caves.

Yet that, surely, would be the most simple part of their attack on Goblin-town.

Where Harry had expected to find a cave not unlike other goblin burrows he'd seen previously, if perhaps a little larger, he instead found a great underground labyrinth. It was clear that most of the upper tunnels had at least begun as natural caves, which had been slowly widened and expanded by successive generations of Goblins.

"We will need to scour every hallway, and every crevice if we are to drive the goblins from this place," said Náin once the battle was won and the extent of the caves became clear.

Harry couldn't help but agree with him. Unlike the infested Dwarf-holds that had until then been the primary battlegrounds in the War, Goblin-town was not built to defend against an attacking army, at least, not in any well-imagined way. Where the cities of the Dwarves were planned with much care and attention, the tunnels of Goblin town held no such design. Wherever a Goblin had wished to burrow, they had burrowed, and the result would surely have been impossible to map.

Not ten yards into the darkness of the cave, it split into three different tunnels, two larger and one smaller. Each of those then split further, and rejoined and split again in a dizzying maze of warrens.

"If we group up, perhaps five Dwarves to a group," he suggested to the other leaders of the army. "At each cross-roads, we split up, an equal number of groups to each tunnel, then perhaps we can cover most of the tunnels."

"It is a reasonable plan," said Gráni, nodding his head. He had been near the forefront of the brief fight for the cave mouth, and his beard was speckled with dark goblin blood. "At any split in the tunnel, we should mark the stone there to direct any who might become lost back to the surface. That way, when these infernal warrens reconnect with others, we will know which direction to travel to return."

The command was sent around, and it took some time for every Dwarf to be grouped together. Five thousand Dwarves would be delving into the tunnels, while those who remained above ground watched any of the other known exits for any attempts at an escape.

At first, it seemed that their strategy would win out, as they were able to push deep into the caves of Goblin-town without resistance. Eventually, though, the size of their groups dwindled, every group of five lost in their own little section of the labyrinth, which seemed to cover a huge underground area. Harry was beginning to believe that Goblin-town was less a town, than it was an entire realm, hidden safely away from the surface world.

Or perhaps it was merely the endless miles of darkness playing tricks upon his mind.

Harry lifted his staff overhead, and allowed its white light to wash over the noisome depths. More featureless, endless tunnels. More bones, more scrap.

Suddenly, an arrow flew from the darkness of one of the many side-tunnels, but was turned aside with a flash of brilliant light. A moment later, two of the Dwarves in Harry's company charged in the direction from which the attack had come. It did not take them long to return.

"Nothing," said Buri, the elder of the two. His beetle-black eyes glinted in the light of Harry's staff, and the frustration they contained was clear to see. "The tunnels split in at least four different directions. There's no way of knowing which way the beast went."

It had become a familiar story. Brief, usually ineffective attacks, sprung from the relative safety of the maze-like warren came every few minutes, and Harry could well understand the frustration. After-all, he shared it. A mind far sharper than most Goblins was surely behind the unusual strategy being employed. Goblins were cunning, yes, and cowardly enough to flee from any fight that they were not certain of winning, but the kind of forethought needed to organise something like their defense of Goblin-town was usually beyond them.

"They need only to make one lucky shot, and we will be in trouble," said Nithi. He was shorter of beard than most of the other Dwarves there, yet Harry could tell that he was nearly as old as Buri.

"We need some way of forcing them into a battle," said Harry thoughtfully. He had considered the idea of attempting to use magic to connect to the stones of the mountain, in an attempt to have them aid them, yet he had until then discarded the idea. He did not need to turn his senses to that hidden world to know that the stone of the caves in which he stood would not be nearly so receptive to his presence as those of the old, lost, Dwarf holds. He pulled his wand from the carefully crafted slot near the top of his staff, and turned it over in his hands.

Perhaps there were more direct methods of forcing the Goblins into the open.

They continued onwards, with the light of Harry's staff sending the shadows fleeing before them. Here and there darkness clung to the stonework as they passed by, and as soon as they were gone it grew once more to fill the tunnels, spreading across the walls like a black fungus. This was a place which had never known the careful tending of the Dwarves.

Rivers had cut their way through the living stone of the mountains, finding every weakness and forcing each and every one open with the kind of irresistible strength only water could muster. Then it had been subject to long years of Goblin cruelty.

Just as the Orcs and Goblins themselves could not hope to conceive of a world in which suffering and cruelty, both petty and great, were not fundamental to every experience and interaction, so too was that true for the mountains.

They had grown cruel. After seeing just a small portion of the extent of the caves, and the Goblin infestation within them, Harry could well understand why the valley and the peaks which lined it had gained a merciless reputation. Storms often wracked the valley, and great rock falls fell from high atop the mountains. Some said that great giants of stone came there to do battle when the winds rose and the storm clouds descended, but Harry knew that stone giants were nothing more than stories for children.

Or, perhaps, depending on your point of view they _were_ real. Perhaps they were not as children might imagine; great towering humanoid creatures of stone and earth, but instead they were the mountains themselves: tall, and cold, and full of spite.

Despite the number of Dwarves who had descended into the caves, and despite the number of Goblins who surely still called them home, it was almost unsettlingly quiet. So far from the life and light of the surface, the only sounds to be heard were the scrape of their feet upon stone, and the constant drip of trickling water as it seeped through fissures in the rock.

Then there was a new noise, almost too faint to hear: the sound of slipping gravel down yet another side corridor. He raised his hand to stop the Dwarves at his back. They all stilled, and he could feel their eyes watching him carefully, but it was not them he was concerned with.

It was a risky strategy. Goblins were poor marksmen, especially with their ability to take aim disrupted by the bright light of his staff, but as Nithi said, they only needed to get lucky once. Still, there was nought he could do but trust in the power of his magic, and so he closed his eyes, and allowed his senses to reach outwards.

If anything, the cave became even colder, and less welcoming than it had been before. The distant beat of the mountain, slow and ponderous like a great heart, reverberated in his mind, and the black hatred for all living things reached out to him like a distant echo returned from long lost caverns.

Close to him, he could hear the Dwarves as they formed a defensive ring around him, each peering into the darkness, fighting against it in an attempt to uncover that which it so carefully hid from them. Perhaps if they had been watching him instead, they would have seen his breath turn to frost as it left his lips. The cold hatred of the mountain bit at him like the deepest of winter chills.

Within that wintry vastness, though, there was the tiniest pinprick of something else. So long had the Goblins dwelled in the black deeps beneath the mountains, that the sense of them was almost lost amid the murky echoes of their mountain home. As Harry deepened his focus, however, he felt the sense grow. The mountains possessed a cold, hard, slow cruelty that was content to see those who attempted to cross its passes slowly freeze to death amid snow and icy winds.

Goblins had not nearly that kind of patience. The pinprick he could feel upon the senses of his mind, was an urgent malice. It was a being that wished to see Harry and his companions suffer, and it wished to see them suffer _now_.

Harry opened his eyes, and the light of his staff nearly blinded him, but in a moment he identified the direction from which his sense had come. He drew forth his wand, and pointed it down the tunnel. There were few spells he remembered from his old life. After so many years many of them had faded to little more than half-remembered dreams.

" _Incendio!_ "

A torrent of fire spilled from the end of his wand, far greater than any flame spell he could remember from his schooling. He could feel the power of his wand surge in response to the fiery spell, revelling in the destruction it would bring. Screams, terrified and anguished, erupted from the darkness, but the roaring of the flames consumed them, just as they consumed the Goblins who had been hiding there, just beyond sight.

With a flick of his wrist, Harry attempted to end the spell. The blazing inferno streaming from his wand did not abate. The joy of his wand at being unleashed was an almost physical thing. The sensation of it was almost catching, but Harry gritted his teeth, and ended the spell.

Still the flames tried to linger, even though they had been cut off from his sustaining power. The dark evil which had seeped into the very stone fed it, but it could not feed it for long. The cold, and the damp could not sustain something which burned with such fury. Less than a minute later, the last of the fires at last guttered and died, and in the place of the roaring flames, there was instead the soft clink and tingle of cooling rock which had in places been slagged to a smooth, glass-like sheen.

Harry had to draw in a deep, settling breath. His wand had always had rather more life within it than the wand he remembered owning in his old world, but never before had it risen to fulfill his command with such ferocity. Was it some old grudge between Scatha and the Goblins of those caves, or was it something else? Slowly, he placed the wand back into the safe little slot in his staff. He would need to be more careful with it until he understood more fully why it had behaved the way that it had.

The Dwarves were silent, whether due to awe, or fear, Harry knew not, but they nevertheless followed as he picked his way through the now cleared tunnel.

Just around a bend they found that which had been hounding them. The corpses of nine Goblins, each and every one of them charred beyond any hope of recognition. The smell of their burned flesh filled the tunnel, and combined with the choking fumes produced by the fire the air was almost unbreathable.

There was little chance that he would be able to conjure much of a breeze in that dark place, and so Harry, like the Dwarves, settled for merely breathing through the cloth of his sleeve. It did little to help, in truth, but it at least stopped the feeling that he was breathing in roasted Goblin flesh with each breath.

The tunnel the Goblins had been hiding down changed as they moved further along it. It grew wider, and obvious signs of habitation started to become more common. Rodent bones were strewn upon the floor. Here and there were a few larger ones. Horses, deer, wolves, even a few which looked to have once been Men. Then, quite suddenly, the tunnel opened out into a vast crevasse.

It was still almost eerily quiet.

The walls of the crevasse stretched up and down into complete darkness, but perched upon the walls were hundreds of ramshackle wooden huts and ledges. In many places the stone had been cut away to create narrow staircases running between buildings on different levels.

"Durin's beard," said Buri, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's huge. Goblins did this?"

"How long have they infested this place?" asked Nithi. "This must surely have taken generations."

"They had long enough," said Harry sadly. The sense of malice he had felt from the mountains certainly told him that much at least.

"Where are they all?" Nithi's eyes scanned the subterranean crevasse, searching for evidence of their foe.

Then, as if in answer, they heard an echoing cry from further down the cleft, and it was followed by the clash of steel.

"Someone else found this place," said Harry, immediately moving in the direction from which he had heard the echo. It was hard to tell, but he did not think it was all that distant.

The stone was slippery underfoot, polished smooth by the passage of countless Goblins, and more than once Harry nearly lost his footing. There were no barriers or stays to stop any who tripped and fell from plunging into the unknowable depths below, and they had to slow their passage lest one of their slips prove fatal. As they picked their way carefully across the face of the rift, the sounds of joined battle grew nearer, but still they could not see the source.

Then they rounded a corner, upon which a building was perched precariously on rotting timbers, and found the source of the rising clamour. As Harry had suspected, it was another group of Dwarves, this one twenty strong, who had found the location of Goblin-town, but they had not been lucky enough to find their portion undefended.

A group of Goblins, maybe a hundred strong or more hemmed them in. Many of them had spears which they japped at the Dwarves to keep them corralled on a broad wooden platform suspended over the depths.

"Is that a troll?" asked one of the Dwarves, as he pointed in the direction of a hulking figure which was lurking near the back of the Goblin force.

Harry directed the light of his staff over the Goblins, and the creature was revealed. It was no troll.

It was a Goblin, perhaps, but if it was a Goblin then it was the largest of its kind that Harry had ever seen or heard of. It was nearly as tall as a troll, and frightfully corpulent beyond anything that Harry might have thought possible. Rolls of foul grey flesh hung from its huge frame, and a distended face, covered in sagging, mottled skin, held two tiny eyes, no larger than those of a more ordinary Goblin. On his head he wore a crown of scrap metal. This, surely, was the Great Goblin the prisoners had talked about, and suddenly Harry understood why they had seemed to regard the creature with such fear and awe.

The Great Goblin looked up at Harry and his group when the light descended on him, and he released a fleshy chuckle. "More meat for the larder!" he said gleefully, his sagging jowls swinging as he spoke.

Many of the Goblins gathered around him were carrying the roughly made bows common to their people, and they immediately took aim at Harry and his companions.

With a cry of effort, Harry plunged his staff into the stone at his feet, and wrenched a great lump of it into the air to hide behind. It blocked the first volley of arrows, but as Harry had noticed before, the stone was no ally to him. It shattered, and they were once again left exposed.

There was no way to get across the fissure to reach their attackers, and Harry feared just what ruin his wand might unleash upon the Dwarves below if he attempted a more brash brand of magic. He needed to get them away from their attackers. He was dragged around the corner from which they had emerged just as a second volley of arrows was released, and he found himself looking at the solution to his problem.

The wooden lean to buildings might have been long dead, but once they had been living, and unlike the stone, they would have known the joy of the sun playing upon their leaves, and the wind whistling through branches.

He placed a hand upon the nearest post he could find which was not already half-rotten, and he closed his eyes.

That memory of life _was_ there, though it had long been dulled by a lifetime of darkness and wanton cruelty. The memory was all he needed. It felt like Harry had to call to that memory for an age, but in truth it was probably more like seconds. As the Dwarves in his company tried to fight back with whatever they could find; rocks, sharped sticks, returned arrows; Harry felt the wood burst into life.

Roots dug deep into the solid stone in search of water, and branches unfurled from what had once been dead wood. All around him, what once had been dead timber, burst into life, but he focused his efforts on the post he was touching. Soon a single huge bough reached across the chasm, leaves opened, trying to find a light which would never come. It would serve as a bridge, if a precarious one..

With all the agility and balance he could muster, Harry ran over the thick bough. As he neared the readied Goblin spears at the far end he flashed the light of his staff to a dazzling brightness. His enemies screamed in fear and confusion when they were blinded, and many tried to flee. Their disarray was so great that more than one of their number toppled over the edge, into the sightless abyss below.

Harry drew his sword, and behind him he heard Dwarven battle-cries echo through the abyss. A few Goblins tried to meet them, but Anguirel bit deep, and their pot-metal swords and armour were little better than cloth before the black blade of Eöl.

Most of them were put to flight in moments, but the Great Goblin did not flee. Instead, he wielded a gigantic hammer, taller than Harry, and swung it with a wild strength. Harry ducked beneath it, and stabbed up at the Great Goblin, and his sword cut into stinking Goblin flesh.

Yet the Great Goblin did not die. A meaty fist swatted Harry aside, and the sword was left protruding from the Goblin's chest. The creature didn't even seem to notice it at first, and charged towards Harry with a guttural cry of rage.

With most of the Goblins fled, and those who had not fled quickly put to the axe and the sword by the combined Dwarvish attackers, they were free to turn their attentions to the Great Goblin. Harry dove out of the way of the Goblin as it charged, and the huge hammer threw up splinters as it smashed through the wood of the roughly constructed platform. As the Goblin turned to attack Harry once more, it was met by Buri and Nithi, who sliced deep gouges into its legs.

Harry returned to the fight then, ducking under another wild swing of the gigantic hammer. In a single smooth motion he got in close, and yanked his sword free of the creature's fleshy belly. He brought the sword around again, reaching as high as he could manage, and cut a deep furrow through the flesh of the Goblin King's neck.

Instantly, the creature's arms went limp. Its lips tried to form some word, but no sound would come. Finally, with the same deceptive slowness of a distant rockslide, he toppled over backwards, and Harry felt the wooden platform shudder under the impact.

Then he heard a snapping sound, and the entire platform shuddered.

"Get off the platform!" he cried to the Dwarves, but it was already too late. With a final deafening crack, it shifted, and started to fall into the black chasm. Harry could do nothing but watch as most of the Dwarves disappeared upwards, and he, along with Buri and Nithi, dropped into the unknowable depths.

The thunder of their landing filled more than just the cave. It filled the whole world, but it was something Harry was willing to savour. He had survived the fall.

The magic he had wrought earlier to make it across the crevasse had not ended with his focus and the entire underside of the platform had sprouted into a thick bushy growth of twigs and leaves. The collision with the ground was bone-rattling, but it was not deadly.

The first thing Harry heard once the noise of their landing had faded was the quiet statement from Nithi: "Ow."

It was followed almost immediately by a weak laugh from Buri, and Harry couldn't help but join them. Perhaps it was not all that funny, but the laughter came anyway. Eventually, they quieted, and managed to extricate themselves from the ruined platform.

"Where to now?" asked Buri, staring around at all the detritus which had been lost to the darkness of the cavern over the years of Goblin residence.

They could either search blindly through what were surely endless caverns, and hope to come upon another group of Dwarves, or Harry could attempt to find some other way out.

"Watch for enemies," Harry commanded his two companions. "I will see if I can feel any kind of waterway or path which might lead us to the surface."

He closed his eyes, and delved deep into the darkness that surrounded them. For a long moment there was nothing. Just blank, cold, dead stone in all directions, but then, like the faintest star flicking in the sky, only noticeable out of the corner of an eye, he felt something else. There was an almost imperceptible dissonance in the darkness. Something did not belong.

He re-opened his eyes, and led his two remaining companions in the direction of whatever it was that he had sensed. It was not much, but it at least gave them a point with which to guide their path.

They followed the tunnel and the winding path it cut through the stone for nearly an hour before the tunnel opened out into a large cavern. In the middle of the cavern was a broad lake, filled with water that was every bit as still as glass. Not a single ripple rolled across its surface.

A crunch echoed through the cavern, and Harry turned to find the source. Nithi was frozen where they stood, their foot suspended in mid-air. Beneath his boots, Harry saw the source of the noise. Yellowing bones littered the ground here and there.

Harry stooped down to look closer at a skull that had been wedged between two stones not far from his own feet. It was a goblin skull, and there were unmistakable cuts and tooth-marks on the bone from where the flesh had been stripped away with a methodical precision. Whatever creature it was that lived so far from the life-giving sun, it surely must have learned never to waste any potential food which found its way into that dark realm.

"What did this?" asked Nithi as he turned a broken leg-bone over in his hands. It had been snapped, and the marrow rooted out from within.

"Could be other Goblins," said Buri, his tone grim. "They care not from where they get their meat. I would not be surprised if many more than these mere few had been consumed by their own kin when the spoils of their raids failed them."

"Where are they then?" asked Nithi, his eyes darting about as they searched for some nameless terror hidden in the darkness beyond Harry's staff-light.

Buri was steadfast. "Fled, likely. Like all the rest."

Harry was not quite so sure. That almost imperceptible presence was still there when he stopped to listen for it. Watchful, cunning, careful. Powerful. For a moment he wondered if perhaps they had by some fell mischance come upon another Balrog, hidden in the bowels of the earth and worshipped by the Goblins who lived in its shadow, but no sooner had that idea occurred to him than it had been discarded.

The Balrogs were beasts. The stories of their origins were many, and none truly knew how they had come to be so savage and their rage so enflamed, but there was no argument that that _was_ their fundamental nature. That somehow, Morgoth had warped the Úmaiar into something less than once they had been.

Gone was the wisdom of the Maiar, and the grace of the Valar. In their place was left only blind rage, and burning hatred for all which lived free.

The dissonance he could feel had none of that. Some relic of the Valar who once had walked and warred upon the lands of Middle-earth, perhaps? Some relic of Morgoth?

If it was, did he _want_ to find it?

The echo of power he could sense was tempting, though. Even if only a little. Long years ago he had given up on finding a way to return to the world of his birth, and resigned himself to his seeming imprisonment within Middle-earth. Yet that choice was one which he had not grasped with both hands, he knew. He had let go of his old world, yet never really embraced the new, not truly.

Perhaps he had been wrong to give up hope on returning? Perhaps there _was_ still hope for that almost forgotten wish.

"Is there something down here?" asked Nithi, drawing Harry from his reflections. "I hear nothing, and see nothing. Yet it seems you are perceiving something beyond my sight. Some invisible beast?"

Harry shook his head and smiled at the idea. "I am not sure, but whatever it is, I do not know if it is a threat, or an opportunity."

He needed more light. Carefully, Harry picked his way over the uneven stone to the water's edge, and he dipped the tip of his staff into their impossibly clear depths.

Unlike the mountains, the waters that cut through them had known far more than mere cruelty at the hands of the Goblins who had come to reside there. Through endless millennia, they had cycled through earth and plant, through river and sea, through man and beast, and like all water they had come to love life every bit as much as life loved water.

Though it was still, and becalmed in the darkness of the cave, a memory that life and light was carried with it still, and perhaps just a little of the power of Ulmo still abided within them. With a whispered word of encouragement, he brought forth a great light. The entire lake lit up in brilliance white.

Like a rushing torrent it filled every crack and cranny of the cavern, and the cold and the dark fled before it into the distance warrens leading back upwards, towards the surface. A scream, an outpouring of pain and anguish, followed it almost instantly. It was the scream of some unseen being for which the light was not like the gentle caress of a summer's morning, but it was instead the burning lance of the mid-day sun in the lifeless valleys of southern Khand.

Harry tried to seek out the source of the noise, but from the echoes it was already retreating into one of the many tunnels which opened out into the cavern. The darkness there embraced the fleeing creature, still unseen, and in a few short seconds it was gone.

Even when he closed his eyes, and tried to reach out with every one of his senses to that distant power which had lured him there, there was nothing. That flickering candle flame had been snuffed in its entirety by the enveloping waves of Harry's magic. All that was left was the endless cold of the deep caverns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lore stuff!
> 
> In this instance, we are talking about Arathorn I, not Arathorn II (who was the father of Aragorn).
> 
> Shâlak-zamr is 'Loudwater' in Khuzdul, which is a reference to the Bruinen, the river that flows by Rivendell. Loudwater is a translation of the Westron name of the river (bearing in mind that Westron is not English, it is merely mapped to English). I elected to have the Dwarvish name mirror the meaning of the Westron name as the antecedent languages were significantly influenced by Khuzdul.
> 
> Stanbrycg means Stone Bridge in Old English. This is a new settlement of the Eotheod which grew up around what was called the Old Ford in the Hobbit (but in the altered continuity, the old stone bridge was repaired by the Eotheod, with some help from Dwarvish allies). Brytta would, had Harry not gummed up the works, have been Brytta Leofa who was King of Rohan after Helm Hammerhand and his children died (technically, Fréaláf Hildeson, Helm's nephew followed Helm as King, but Brytta was Fréaláf's son). In this continuity, however, Haleth, Helm's eldest son did not die to Dunlendings and is the current king of the Riddermark. My plan regarding the snowballing changes is that I will continue to have recognisable characters feature, but they may be in stations that do not match canon (but which I hopefully have a reasonable explanation for). So, here Brytta is Lord of Stanbrycg, and Second Marshall of the Riddermark.
> 
> Stone Giants occupy a strange position in Tolkien's works, in as much as they are mentioned in the Hobbit in no uncertain terms, but in The Lord of the Rings, and the greater Legendarium, they are completely forgotten. In Tolkien's planning, they were an early, evil, precursor to Ents (it was a Giant named Treebeard who took Gandalf prisoner, not Saruman, for example), but all of this was eventually excised completely.
> 
> As such, I've focused on The Hobbit as a children's tale. A story written down by Bilbo to delight his young ward, and maybe other young Hobbits. In that interpretation, it draws from elements of reality, but rounds off the edges, and adds a level of whimsical fantasy which is lost in the more 'grounded' account of Frodo and The Lord of the Rings.


	34. Soon to Meet the Light With Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to everyone (to those who do not celebrate Christmas: Happy Random Day In December When Steelbadger Posts A Bunch Of Things For Once)!
> 
> In the UK, we will sadly be unable to see much of our families at this time, and I'm sure many people in other countries will be experiencing something similar. I can't really do much about that, I'm afraid, but I can drop a whole bunch of words. Hopefully they brighten the days of at least a few people. As a gift to you all, I've produced a few chapters for a Christmas Day bonanza. This story is getting an update, while the regular update to Toppling Heroes has been bumped up to two chapters instead of one. Like I said, it's not much, but I imagine more than a few people out there are feeling rather lonely at the moment, so far from their families (I know I'm missing mine). I can't bring you your family, but I can invite you into my worlds (such as they are), and you can abide a time with me there.

The three peaks of Khazad-dûm drew ever closer. With each battle, and every march, they grew larger in Harry's mind. Now, after months of campaigning, they grew large in his sight too. Cruel Barazinbar, mightiest of all the peaks of the Misty Mountains, loomed large upon the horizon, flanked by Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr. Harry could remember the first time he had ever seen them; how Zirakzigil had sparkled in the moonlight, and its beauty had drawn him and his then companions into the darkness.

Of those who had sought to delve into that dark pit, only half of them had survived. Brave, proud Flói, and steadfast Thórir had died, and their bodies had been left to moulder and rot within the Halls of their ancestors. Frór had survived, but his mind had been left broken. Years later, when Harry's travels had taken him to Iron Hills, he had discovered Frór to be little more than a shadow of what he had once been. Gone was the proud prince of Durin's folk, dutiful and valiant. In his place Harry had found a frail old Dwarf, aged far beyond his years, who jumped at every shadow and feared fire beyond all things.

A gulf of years had opened up between Harry and those old friends, an ocean every bit as wide and impassable as that which girdled Middle-earth. Frór had been interred in a tomb that was befitting of one from the line of Durin himself, but even that was beginning to show its age. The last time Harry had seen it it was weatherbeaten, and the runes inscribed upon it were almost unreadable. All too soon, to Harry's mind, it would return to the bones of the earth from which it had been raised.

Harry hoped that there, at least, his old friend might find peace.

"What weighs upon your mind?"

Upon silent feet, Daewen had come to stand at his side. Her gaze followed Harry's own, and came to rest upon the mountains that were perhaps only two days' march hence.

"It will not be long before we reach Khazad-dûm," said Harry.

Though he did not look, Harry heard the faintest whisper of hair as his companion nodded. "The long-awaited conclusion of this war," she said. She turned her gaze behind them, towards the camp where Dwarves, Men and even Elves mingled rowdily.

Harry could hear upon the wind a war of sorts being waged, as Men and Dwarves competed over who among them could think up the bawdiest song. There were even a few Elves laughing along, though none of them participated.

"You are worried by what we might find there?"

"I know all too well what it is we will find in that black pit." Shadow and flame. Darkness and malice. "What worries me is that even now, I am not sure I have the power to stand against it, and if I do not think I have that power what chance does that give everyone else?"

He paused for a moment.

"I have lost friends here before. I do not wish to lose any more."

"I do not know that I can offer much to quell those fears," said Daewen as a frown ghosted over her features, "but I think you misjudge yourself. Look about you. Dwarves, Men and Elves, all come together to wage a common war. Even if we should lose in the battle to come, it will be long years before Goblins are able to once more reach the numbers necessary to threaten the peoples that live to the east and west. Even you had not the power to do that alone, and yet with those you have gathered here, it was done. When last you entered Moria, you did so with but a few companions. Now you have an army, and your power has surely grown beyond anything you could have imagined then."

"Perhaps," said Harry, but the words sounded hollow even to him. His power had grown, of that there could be no doubt, but he had felt the power of the Balrog. No matter how strong a river's flow might become, it could not hope to sweep aside a sea.

At that moment, a young Dwarf ran up to them both, his heavy breaths hanging in the air behind him. "Darjûn," he said urgently. It was clear that the Dwarf was one of those who had come from Ironhaunt. "Another wizard has come to the camp, and seeks to speak with you."

Harry frowned, and turned his gaze towards the camp. He had been so caught up in his own worries that he had not noticed the recent arrival. Now that he turned his senses to the task, he could feel them. The warmth, like a comforting fire, was unmistakable. Gandalf.

It was not often that Harry and Gandalf crossed paths, for they both wandered widely across the lands of Middle-earth. That Gandalf should seek him out on the eve of a battle spoke to some great necessity.

"Thank you," Harry said to the Dwarf. He then turned to Daewen. "It seems that Mithrandir has come to seek me out, though to what purpose I cannot say."

"I thought he was far to the south," said Daewen. "I wonder what business could have brought him so far north?"

There was no denying the curiosity that Harry knew they both shared. "Come, let us find out."

The walk to the Thráin's tent was not a long one, but it required them to pass through much of the camp. The tents were packed closely in what was a relatively small patch of flat ground in the sheltered lee of the mountain, and Harry often garnered much attention wherever he went.

When they entered, Gandalf was exactly as Harry remembered him from their few short interactions. It had been something of a rude surprise the first time Harry had met him. Where Saruman's bearing, manner and dress all spoke to the power he wielded, both politically and magically, Gandalf looked like little more than a haggard wanderer. It was only his weather beaten pointy hat, and the gnarled staff which he carried with him everywhere he went that marked him as anything more than an old man.

At least, that was the impression Harry had had of him until he had met his eyes. They were a keen blue, as bright as a summer sky. They shone with the warmth of youth, and yet they held an age and wisdom that might have brought Harry to believe that they were older than the mountains themselves. If he was right about the truth of the Istari, then that might just be the truth.

"Ah, Harry," he said as he looked up from the fire. "It has been too long, has it not?" His gaze turned to Daewen. "Daewen too. It is good to see that you are both well."

"Gandalf," said Harry a little warily. Gandalf was perhaps even more of a wanderer than Harry himself, and it was seldom that he travelled anywhere for a purely social purpose. Cheery though his greeting may be, there was sure to be some greater purpose to their meeting. "What brings you here. I thought your efforts were still focused in Umbar?"

The tent seemed to grow just a little darker, a little quieter, like a cloud blocking the sun before moving on once more. Gandalf's bushy eyebrows furrowed, and Harry could see the sadness which flickered in his eyes.

"The young Prince was deposed," said Gandalf. "Beheaded by his own uncle before a cheering crowd. It will not be long at all before the fleets are ready to sail once more."

That certainly explained why Gandalf was no longer in the south. Daewen looked understandably troubled by the news.

"What of Gondor?" Harry asked, concerned. "Surely they will have need of allies if the corsairs are to threaten their coasts once more. Belfalas might be strong, but Harondor has long been contested. If Umbar finds common cause with Harad then there is little chance that Gondor will be able to hold those lands."

"Beregond is a wise ruler, and a strong warrior," said Gandalf. "He has made an alliance with the Green-men who have long held Calenardhon. He knows of the threat. No, after I returned to the north, I heard word of the growing darkness which has spread across Mirkwood."

"The Necromancer," Daewen supplied.

Harry nodded. "He has spread his influence from Dol Guldur, and much of southern Mirkwood is now a dangerous thicket. It is said that spiders the size of Men breed thick in its depths. Only the Beornings are willing to live in the shadow of the wood now."

"So I have heard," said Gandalf as he nodded. "When I returned north, I spoke with Saruman, and he told me of what you have been doing here. I suggested that it was time to purge Dol Guldur too. Too long has the Enemy had it as a ready bolt-hole for use in his schemes."

Harry well knew what Saruman's answer to that suggestion would have been. His intelligence and wisdom was undeniable, but he was cautious too. He would surely not countenance a war to unseat the Necromancer based merely upon the possibility that they might be a ready ally to the Enemy.

"But he said no," said Harry.

"He did not feel it to be prudent," Gandalf agreed. "I believe he has his own agents in the area, attempting to gain information on just who this Necromancer is."

One person immediately came to mind. "Radagast?"

Gandalf smiled fondly. "Among others, I am sure."

If Radagast was the one tasked with keeping an eye on Dol Guldur then it certainly suggested that Saruman did not place much stock in the rumours which surrounded the shadowy Necromancer. While he might never say it out loud, it was clear that Saruman believed Radagast to be the least of their order.

"In that case, I am still not sure you answered my question," said Harry, growing tired of Gandalf's equivocating.

A low chuckle told Harry that Gandalf knew exactly what he was doing. The look that passed between Harry and Daewen then only served to bring Gandalf more mirth.

"It seems I am not as subtle as I would like to imagine," he said with a wry look. "Despite Saruman's insistence that the Necromancer is surely little more than some mean conjuror, I resolved to investigate. Little passes beneath the White Wizard's sight, however, and as I was leaving he asked if I would go a little out of my way, and bear a message to you."

"A message?"

"Indeed," said Gandalf. "It seems you have been wandering."

Harry frowned, not understanding. "I have been wandering for many years."

"But usually, you take your body with you, do you not?" Gandalf asked, his blue eyes piercing. "I find it to be a most useful contrivance. It does not do to leave it behind."

"How is that possible?" Daewen asked, eyes wide. "There are stories that the Lady of the Golden Wood may send her senses forth, but I know of no others with that ability."

"There are some," said Gandalf vaguely, but his inquisitive gaze remained fixed upon Harry.

"Saruman felt my… wandering?" he said, realising that Gandalf was talking about his night-time flight on the night of the Battle of the Cliff. "Was his the voice I heard? It did not sound like him — In fact, now that I think on it, it felt more like—"

"The Lady Galadriel, yes," said Gandalf, nodding as he glanced towards Daewen as if to acknowledge her earlier words on she who was called the Mistress of Magic by some. "It was she who reached out to you when you drifted too close to peril, but she sent word of it to Saruman. It seems you have greatly worried both of them."

"But not you?" Harry could not help asking.

"I have every faith in you," said Gandalf simply. "None of us; not I, nor the Lady of the Golden Wood, not even Saruman; know your purpose here, but I do not doubt that you have it. Your abilities are strange, and yet familiar too. I do not think it is for me to place demands upon you. I suspect you place enough of them upon yourself as it is."

"That's his message?" Harry asked, not believing it for a second. "To be careful?"

"No! No, certainly not all of it, at the least." Gandalf leaned forward and met Harry's eyes. "No, instead, he wished to know if there was something more to the sudden appearance of that ability. It is not something that is alien to us; there are those among the Wise who can reach out to other minds as you did, but the manner of your discovery is puzzling. How is it that you can do this thing, seemingly without knowing what it is you are doing?"

"What are you asking?"

"There is a weapon of the enemy," said Gandalf, his voice becoming utterly serious. "It is not an item with which I am familiar, but Saruman has long sought it. If we can but find it, and deprive the Enemy of its power, it would be a great boon to us in our struggle."

"The One Ring," said Harry, knowing immediately of that which Gandalf spoke. It was not spoken of often, even among the Wise, but Harry remembered, once, learning of the history of Celebrimbor and the Rings of Power. "Surely it is long lost. Swept out to sea, or buried deep in the earth?"

"Would that we might have been so lucky," said Daewen as she shook her head sadly.

"Many have argued for that possibility," said Gandalf, his tone did not so much as hint at his own thoughts on the matter. "Yet if it could be found, it would represent an opportunity greater than any before in this war."

"This war is almost done, Gandalf," said Harry. "If the Ring has stayed undiscovered all these years, it seems unlikely that we would be able to uncover it in the few days we have before the final battle for Khazad-dûm is joined."

But Gandalf shook his head and said: "I meant the greater war, of which this is but one small struggle. I know you seldom concern yourself with the White Council and its comings and goings, but even you must know that it is a war which we are losing."

"Are we?" Harry asked. "Gondor is stronger now than it has been in a generation. Their enemies to the south will soon renew their attacks, yes, but the North is secure at least."

"Is it?" The tone in which Gandalf asked his question gave Harry pause.

"You think it is not?"

"I think there is a festering boil that grows near the very heart of the North's strength," said Gandalf.

Silence fell between them when Gandalf made his grim pronouncement. Daewen looked worried by his words.

It wasn't difficult to understand what it was to which Gandalf referred. "Dol Guldur, then," said Harry. "But we have wandered off track once more. You did not travel all this way to speak cryptic warnings to me on the eve of battle. Why are you really here, Gandalf?"

Gandalf smiled warmly. "Well, wandering is our prerogative, I think."

Harry was about to make a comment to Daewen on the endless obfuscations of wizards, but was stopped in his tracks when Gandalf held up a hand.

"But as you say, there is a purpose to my presence here. Saruman was worried that your sudden heightened ability to travel across the land without the burden of a body might have been caused by something. I believe he feared it might even have been the One. After all, you were camped not far from the Gladden at the time, were you not?"

"Only by the most loose of measures," said Daewen, shaking her head. "We are closer now to the Gladden than we were then."

Nodding, Harry agreed with her. "Regardless of that, Saruman can sleep easy knowing that I came into possession of nothing which might have increased my powers. Or did he perhaps hope that I had found something? Certainly, for the battles to come I do not think such a powerful weapon would be unwelcome."

"In truth, I cannot be sure," said Gandalf with a thoughtful nod. "I would caution you against those thoughts, however. The Ring belongs to Sauron, and he alone has the ability to bend it to his will."

Perhaps, once, it would have been a strange notion: the thought that so small a thing could possess such a power, but Harry had travelled far and wide across the lands of Middle-earth, and he knew that more than just the Ring had something like a mind of their own.

There were trees which hated all those who moved beneath their boughs, and rustled in windless air, their anger and rage leaking from them into the very ground on which they stood. Even Barazinbar, mighty upon the horizon, was evidence of it. It was a peak as cruel and capricious as any Orc. Storms could whip up out of nowhere to assault an unwary traveller. Avalanches would fall from undisturbed higher slopes without warning, and bury the narrow narrow Redhorn pass in many feet of snow.

"Then I shall keep an eye out, and I shall be cautious," said Harry eventually. He might be old, far older than he had any right to be, but he knew he was little more than a child before the Wise. That they invited him to meetings of the White Council was a perpetual puzzle to Harry.

"Good. Good," said Gandalf, nodding to himself.

Despite his seemingly relaxed manner, Harry could see that the seemingly innocuous discussion had quelled some deep worries.

"In that case," Gandalf continued as he pulled out a well-worn pipe. "Perhaps you can tell me how you have been. It has been more than twenty years, has it not?"

Soon, the air was slowly filling with the smell of halfling pipe-weed as Harry and Daewen told Gandalf of the battles and trials they had experienced so far in the war. It would be late indeed when finally Harry went to his bed, his thoughts still preoccupied with the looming image of a great mountain, glowering down upon him from the slowly nearing horizon.

o-o

"The Galadhrim are on the march!" said Elladan to the commanders of Thráin's host, gathered atop a bluff which overlooked Azanulbizar.

Little had changed in the valley since last Harry had camped there. The still waters of Kheled-zâram reflected a cloud blue sky, and the last of the winter snows clung still to the edges of the valley. That beauty would soon be marred, for the topic of their council was the battle which was to come.

The sudden arrival of Elladan, who had been commanding the scouts in their search for Orcish trickery caused some surprise among those who were gathered there.

"The Golden Wood marches to war?" asked King Haleth, his eyes, still sharp in his old age turned in the direction of the woods, which shone like new fire in the late spring sun.

"Now they march," muttered Náin to Nari who was beside him.

It spoke to the depth of the friendships which had been forged throughout the war that nothing more was said. Instead, Thráin asked the obvious question.

"When do they arrive, and what are their numbers?"

"No more than a day," said Elladan. There was a light of happiness in his eyes, no doubt looking forward to the chance to see more of his kin than the scant few who had come with the sons of Elrond to join the Dwarves' cause. "As for their numbers, they look to be near two thousand strong."

While it did not represent the full strength of Lothlórien, it was certainly a mighty host. Once, perhaps, it would have been little more than an expeditionary force, but those days were long gone.

That fact did not go unnoticed among Thráin's gathered captains. None among them could remember the last time such great numbers had marched forth from the Golden Wood.

"Who leads them?" Harry asked.

"With such great numbers? I would not be surprised if it is Lord Celeborn himself who leads," said Elladan.

That possibility soothed many of the worries which had been growing within Harry as they neared what all hoped would be the final battle of the war. The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood were wise beyond his ken, and while he knew they were not infallible, they seldom wasted their knowledge and power upon a hopeless cause.

"The Gyldedene has long been an ally to the Riddermark," said Haleth, a smile spreading upon his face. "Seldom do they come forth, but in our hour of darkest need, they always are there. This is auspicious news indeed."

"This is no dark hour in need of the charity of Elves!" Gráni grumbled, though there was little heat in his words. "The coming battle will at last return light to the Halls of Durin which have so long suffered under the name of Moria."

"Dark hour or no, we have seen how effective the Elves have been in our war," said Thráin firmly. "I would never turn away two thousands more of them. That is a force great enough to launch a true ambush upon our enemies."

"Aye, if we can conceal them upon the mountainside, and lure the Orcs to our lines we could trap them between the cliffs on one side, and Kheled-zâram on the other," said Náin. He beat his fist upon the camp table, rattling the cups, quills and pots arrayed there. "We could smash them once and for all."

Throughout their campaigns it had proven a common concern. Dwarves, whilst stout of heart and body were not nearly so mobile as the agile, and far more lightly armoured Elves. The hundred or so Elves who had joined the sons of Elrond in joining Thráin's war were not numerous enough to form any kind of true flanking force.

The men of the Riddermark, though, were stout, and upon their horses they could easily outmanoeuvre their Goblin foes. Seldom did their enemies have any kind of cavalry of their own, the wargs of Gundabad had never been all that numerous, and most had fled into the wilds when the battle had started to go ill.

However, after months on the campaign trail, more than half of Haleth's men had died or become injured. They had not the constitution of the Elves, and lacked the familiarity of Dwarves with their mountain homes. Many of the horses had broken their legs upon the rough scree of the mountainsides, and now, at the end of the campaign, the full account for the mounted contingent was less than one hundred men. Those who had not died or been injured fought on foot, but it meant that latterly, many of the more recent battles had not seen a conclusive victory.

The Goblins would rise from their dark holes, like some fell fungus, to launch their attacks. Then, as the army marshalled itself, and started to fight back their foes would melt away once more, like late snow upon a summer hilltop.

It was only in their dens, and the lost holds of the Dwarves, where they could be brought to proper battle. Even then, however, they seldom fought long beyond the point at which it was clear they had no hope. For that reason, the captains of the host had elected to seek one final battle, which would end it all.

They swept down the mountains, from north to south. Every Goblin bolthole they found was either garrisoned, or collapsed. The Goblins of the Misty Mountains were left nowhere to go but south, to the one great stronghold they still had. Khazad-dûm. How great their numbers might be, after all the Misty Mountains had been emptied into those endless halls, none really knew.

Perhaps that was the reason for the aid which was coming to them from Lothlórien.

o-o

The arrival of Celeborn's host, for it was indeed Celeborn who rode at the head of the long column of Elves, was much different to the arrival of Elladan and Elrohir's force at the beginning of the war.

Every one of the captains of Thráin's host, and many more besides, stood ready to meet them. Gandalf too was there, gazing upon the unusual gathering as he puffed thoughtfully upon his pipe. Unlike before, there was no muttering to be heard, and though the Dwarves' expressions were guarded, there were few scowls to be found among them.

The Elves who had fought with them for nearly a year had proved themselves time and time again, and there were now few indeed who had not gained at least a grudging respect for them. Some few had even become friends.

A host of Elves on the march was something Harry had never seen, though he had often heard stories. The great hosts which had met the forces of Morgoth in battle in the First Age when the world was yet done lived on still in the stories and songs which were oft recounted by the Elves of Imladris.

Fluttering banners, shining silver woven into the very fabric so that they glowed in the sun, and rippling fire played across them with the wind. Elvish harps, which filled the air with a music which was at the same time beautiful and terrifying. Shining armour, glinting in the light like a million jewels, and finally, the high, pure voices of the Elves themselves raised in song, supported by the powerful tones of many trumpets.

Foes had fled before them in their splendor, and even the dark clouds of Morgoth's sorcery retreated at their approach.

Hosts of Elves in the fading days were far reduced from the glory days of Gondolin, Doriath and Nargothrond, the great realms of Beleriand of old. The number of Elves who had fought at the cursed Fen of Serech in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad was said to be greater than all the Men, Women and Children who now lived in Minas Tirith, the greatest city of Men that yet remained in Middle-earth. The thunderous music of their glorious march had shaken the very mountains. More than half of their number had died that day, and most of those who did survive did not do so for long when Morgoth's victorious hosts descended upon Beleriand.

Those days were long gone, but in this small host, there was yet a faint memory of that glory.

Celeborn, resplendent in the finest Elvish plate Harry had ever seen rode at the fore atop a shining Elvish steed. At his side rode three captains of the Galadhrim, and behind them walked the army in three narrow columns. Each was five abreast, and more than one hundred deep, and each one wore long, loose cloaks in the autumn colours familiar to their people. Beneath the cloaks, flashes of silvered metal could be seen, but the sight was not nearly so grand as what once had been.

Still, the sight of them brought a lightness to Harry's heart as a small measure of the weight which had been heavy upon him was lifted.

As Celeborn approached, his head held high and proud, he for a moment met Harry's gaze, and a familiar understanding passed between them. There were surely things he wished to discuss.

"The Lord of the Golden Wood marches forth to war!" said Thráin, his voice strong and certain. "Old allies together at last to reclaim that which was lost."

"It has been too long since the Galadhrim knew the friendship of the Dwarves of Khazad-dum," said Celeborn as his horse came to a stop without any need of visible command from its rider. "Once, my people and yours forged an alliance which stood against the darkness which attacked the very heart of our world. That alliance has not been forgotten by me, or by the Lady of the Golden Wood. If you would allow it, we would fight by your side, as we once did your fathers' fathers'."

"Come, then," said Thráin, as he turned to lead the new arrivals away to the war-table.

Celeborn turned his gaze momentarily back to the captains who accompanied them, and upon his wordless command, they each went to the head of one of the columns and started to command them in the native Silvan tongue common to most of the Elves who lived in Lothlórien. With a precision Men could not hope to match, the columns broke up, each Elf focused on some specific task.

Harry joined Celeborn as they both walked the short distance to the place where Thráin held his councils.

"It seems you possess an Istar's talent for finding yourself at the centre of events," said Celeborn lightly.

Unsure how to respond to that, Harry replied: "No more than Lord Celeborn the Wise, I am sure. The Galadhrim have ventured forth from Lothlórien ever more of late, I am told."

"And it will surely become more frequent still, if tales out of the North are to be believed," said Celeborn, his words accompanied by a significant look. "Gundabad reclaimed by the Dwarves, and a treasure beyond anything seen in Middle-earth since the Valar themselves resided here, if rumours are true."

That, at least, went some way to explaining Celeborn's presence. Not only was he bringing a force to aid the Dwarves in their war, but he wished to continue his march north to see the White Tree of Gundabad, which bloomed still in the darkness of its cave.

Before he could ask just what it was that the tales said, they were joined by Elladan and Elrohir. Their delight at the arrival of their mother's father was clear as they bounded up with the kind of energy only an Elf could muster.

A warm smile spread across Celeborn's face at the arrival of his two grandsons, though Harry could see the lingering solemnity which hid still behind that joy. "It is good to see you all well," he said, nodding his head to Harry also. "I knew, of course, that no great harm had befallen any of you, but it still is a gift to find you well. I know that your mother and father have wondered at how you might be faring. It has been too long since word was sent to Imladris of the war."

"There has been much and more to do," said Elrohir, though he appeared contrite, well aware of the gentle note of admonishment in Celeborn's tone. "Many of the battles since that one have been minor indeed. Barely more than skirmishes in truth."

"And yet your mother misses you, even so," said Celeborn. "But I did not travel this far at the head of an army to remonstrate with the wayward children of my beloved daughter. Your actions in this war have done us all proud. To see the allegiance which you have built between our people, and the Dwarves is a thing which I had never dared hope to see. I must warn you, however, that I have been asked— nay, I have been commanded to see you safely to the Golden Wood once this war is completed."

"Is it the Lady Galadriel who wishes to see us?" asked Elladan as his brother laughed happily.

"Not she," said Celeborn, a slim smile upon his face as he shared in the twins' mirth, "but instead someone altogether more compelling in their persuasion."

"Who is it, then, who can command Lord Celeborn the Wise with such authority?"

"It is Arwen, of course," said Celeborn shaking his head. "It was all we could promise that would keep her from joining us on this march. It seems she has found herself lonely in your absence." He looked around a moment, looking for someone. "I hope that Daewen, too, is well? I do not see her here."

"She is currently commanding the watch over the Valley," said Elladan, pointing to a distant point on the mountainside where the Elves maintained their vigil.

Harry, of course, could see no sign of there being anything but loose scree upon that slope, but Celeborn's sharp eyes pierced the distance with ease. He smiled and nodded, satisfied.

"You also have been asked to return with me," he said to Harry. "The request is not only from Arwen, but from the Lady herself. She wished to warn you of the dangers of venturing too far from your body." He waited for a second before his gaze turned shrewd and he said: "But as those warnings are likely to fall upon deaf ears, she also wished to extend to you an offer of some limited tutelage in the art."

Elrohir laughed, glad that any ire would surely be directed in Harry's direction when they finally did return to Lothlórien. "It seems the Lady has made an apprentice of you," he said, looking altogether pleased with himself. "Woe betide the Man that rejects Galadriel and Arwen both. I have seen your courage first-hand, but only the truly foolhardy would attempt to fight that battle."

Before Harry could come up with a response, they reached Thráin's tent, and the large table which was covered in maps of the valley, with known Orc bolt-holes marked in red. As the topic of conversation turned to their plans for the battle ahead, Harry knew he wasn't paying full attention.

Just what did Lady Galadriel know or suspect about his abilities? Even Saruman had often been content to leave Harry to his own devices as he probed his own abilities. When Harry had tried to ask him direct questions, he would often be met only with the vaguest of answers, accompanied by more questions.

If Galadriel could give him some guidance on just what his abilities were, and how it was they came about, perhaps he might have some more substantial understanding of just what was expected of him in Middle-earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Gyldedene is 'Golden Valley' in Old English, mirroring the 'Dwimordene' name which the Rohirrim had for Lothlórien in canon, but altered due to a somewhat closer relationship between the two nations (Dwimordene means 'Haunted Valley').
> 
> I planned to be able to get this written up in plenty of time for Christmas, but the surprise addition of a Harry/Fleur short story to my slate rather robbed me of a lot of the time I had available this month for writing. I got there in the end, though, so I hope you enjoy. If you're still looking for something to pass the time, why not take a look at Autumn Leaves, my new Harry/Fleur short (20k) story. It's not a crossover. Weird, right?
> 
> I want to thank each and every one of you, readers and reviewers, for all the support you've given this story. You're awesome, and I'll see you all next year! Have a good one.


	35. Dark Memories of Elder Days Defiant

The day of battle came at long last. Months of warring and minor battles. Dozens of lost holds recaptured. Hundreds of dead Men, Dwarves and even Elves. Yet all of it would rest upon the outcome of the battle to come. If Thráin and his allies emerged victorious, all the suffering, and all of the loss endured throughout the long war would not be wasted.

If they lost, then the price that had already been paid would be little more than the sea spray on an ocean of grief.

"I still like it not," said Thorin, who stood beside Harry atop a promontory near the Stair of Barazinbar, high upon the slopes of the valley of Azanulbizar. "We know nothing of the numbers of the enemy, yet we march into the very maw of the host that surely awaits us."

"You worry too much about mere Orcs," said Dáin who stood beside him. Together, they commanded the small force which had been left with Harry. Daewen, too, was not far away. She was a little further up the mountainside, and beneath her Elvish cloak she was near impossible to find.

"We may have to face more than mere Orcs," said Harry. Perhaps it was merely his own apprehension, but as the battle had drawn closer, he had felt some unknown weight descend upon him. There was little doubt in his mind that the Balrog was awaiting his return. Every time he had travelled close to Khazad-dûm he had been able to feel the beast's unseen gaze upon him.

What concerned him most was that this time he could find no sign of it. Harry had spent every evening for the last few days reaching out carefully into the darkness. There was a fire burning somewhere out there. He could smell the smoke of it within his mind, but there was no sign of the flames. Out upon the southern plains of Rhûn the people there spoke of the Morthbrond. The hidden fire. When lightning struck the dry plains, and kindled a fire upon them which was reduced to little more than scalding embers by the strong, scouring winds. The Morthbrond would lie in wait until the winds dropped a little, and would spring suddenly into terrible life.

That thought worried him more than anything. In his previous meetings with the creature, it had been powerful beyond imagining but it did not seem that patience was something which came easily to it.

When asked, Gandalf had said very little at first. His sky-blue eyes had almost seemed to look through Harry completely, and Harry had struggled to comprehend what he'd seen in them. Kindness, yes, but edged with a pity that had kindled a flicker of resentment within him before it was quickly extinguished by Gandalf's reply.

"Who could hope to plumb the thoughts of a being such as Durin's Bane?" he'd asked. "Not I, certainly, and I am not sure I'd care to if I could. It is no dumb creature though, you must know that. Once it was surely a being of grace and wisdom as great as any Elf Lord. Greater even. It did not lose those gifts when it fell into the shadow within which it now cloaks itself. No, it merely turned them to darker purposes. I would caution you not to underestimate our foe."

Harry did not need to be reminded of that. The last time he had stepped foot into Khazad-dûm he had done so without any understanding of the world into which he walked. He was no stranger to darkness. He had lived through pain. He had experienced rage that had burned deep within his bones. He had known fear, and disgust.

None of that had prepared him for meeting the terror that stalked those subterranean Halls. Even now, years after he had borne word of it to the surface it was a horror without true name. Durin's Bane, some called it. Others, the Balrog of Moria. What name the dread had once known was long gone. Lost in the mists of history. It had not lost the malice which had been borne within it during the earliest ages of the world. Before the Sun rose for the first time, the Balrog had been old, and it had been terrible.

What rage, what fear, what disgust Harry had known had paled into insignificance before the burning gaze of that nameless being. Like a candle before an inferno, choked by the furious hunger of the greater blaze, breath stolen until it was snuffed out and consumed, his own power had been as nothing before the Balrog.

It made the memory of his preparations then seem laughable. How could he prepare for a being such as that? He had been a fool before. To think he could defeat something of the Balrog's power through meagre tricks, or skill at arms was hubris of the most unforgivable kind, and it had cost much.

And so it was that the greatest hope for the coming battle was that the Balrog would not come; that it would not step beyond the threshold of its deep, dark domain. Many times had Elf-parties taken the Pass of Caradhras, and while a few had been attacked by marauding Orcs their defenders, strengthened out of fear of what lay slumbering fitfully in the Halls of Durin, had been more than stalwart enough to see them off.

Only once since its existence had been revealed by Harry had it stood beneath the open sky, and that had been long ago, though it still remained potent in his memory.

"We have you," said Dáin, pride and youthful confidence ringing true in his words, "and we have Gandalf. The Elves too, and a greater force of Dwarves than has marched in this age of the world. What power could Durin's Bane hold that could contest the strength of two wizards."

Harry wanted to correct him, but the courage that those words brought to those nearby who were listening in was clear. What good would it do to instil within them a fear about which they could do barely more than nothing? So Harry stayed silent as he ran his hands over the smooth metal and stone of his staff, the quiet power there giving him some measure of comfort. He prayed that Dáin's faith was not misplaced.

"Look!" cried Balin, his arm outstretched and pointing down into the valley below. "The trap is baited. We must be ready for the Orcs' attack."

When Harry followed Balin's gaze, he saw that, indeed, the first move of the battle had been made. A relatively small force, the banners of the Dwarven Lords, Kings and Captains flying proudly over them, had come apart from the main force. To any who looked, it would seem wholly unintentional.

The battle line had been drawn up to give every appearance that the Dwarves sought to meet the denizens of Moria in open battle. Thick, grey winter clouds hung motionless in the sky overhead, clouding the three peaks of Zirakzigil, Bundushathûr, and Barazinbar. Only weak, ill favoured sunlight made it through the thick cover it provided.

The Dwarves had spread their line from the Mirrormere to the steep scree-slopes of Barazinbar's lower reaches. Only by circling the lake and crossing the Kibil-nâla further down the valley could an enemy hope to encircle the combined forces. Yet, in their march, it seemed as if the command contingent, which anchored the southern end of the line had been left out in the open. Just to their north, the ground became marshy and hard to traverse, and a breach had opened up.

It would be an irresistible opportunity for the Orcs who were surely watching from the shadowed overlooks, concealed within the crags of the mountainside by ancient Dwarvish craft.

So it was that a great clamour and cry went up from the mountain, and filled the valley from end to end. Then, seconds later, the wide open gates of Moria spilled forth the pit's foul inhabitants in numbers beyond anything Harry had before seen.

Great beasts— wolves as tall as a man —led the charge, and they ran across the rough ground with a speed that would challenge even the steeds of the Riddermark. They were distant, and yet Harry fancied he could see the cruel teeth which filled their open maws. No wolf's howl was it that escaped them as they rushed the Dwarvish line with reckless fury, but wailing that sounded like laughter, and filled with ruthless joy at the prospect of tasting the blood of their enemies. Wargs.

Behind them came the numberless hordes of Orcs and Goblins which had infested the halls of Khazad-dûm. Like a black tide they issued from the gates, and from a dozen smaller posterns hidden against the mountainside. They had taken the bait, and they had taken it with a ferocity that left even Harry surprised. Their numbers were greater than he had imagined. Had so many of the Goblins of the Misty Mountains been able to flee to Moria?

"By my beard, how many are they?" Balin asked. It was surely the question on the minds of all those who were with Harry.

"It matters not how many they are," said Dáin firmly. "So long as the line holds them, they cannot hope to win. Once they are engaged, their fate will be sealed."

The group that had become separated began retreating in good order back to their own lines, though it was obvious that they would not be able to make it to that relative safety as the Wargs came in, swift as a winter wind. Just when it seemed that they might be overrun, a bright light, pure and white, shone out from the Dwarvish lines. Then, Elvish arrows tore through the Wargs which were at the forefront of the charge, sowing further discord among them.

The Wargs, surprised and dazzled by the sudden brilliance, faltered in their charge, and many of them started milling about on the scrubby ground not far from the Dwarves' defensive position. Those who were able to continue their pursuit were soon felled by accurate volleys of Elvish arrows. Harry could see Celeborn upon that flank, surrounded by half his warriors, resplendent in his armour, like an image of Ages long past. Another volley hit home, and Wargs died by the dozen.

"Now?" Thorin asked.

He looked to Harry expectantly, but Harry's gaze was fixed on the battle below. In his hand he held a small phial of similar decoction to the ones he'd used in a couple of their previous battles. Soon would come the moment to break it, but as he watched the second line of Orcish attackers near the first, he saw an opportunity ready to present itself.

"Not yet," he muttered, more to himself than the Dwarves around him. "Just a little closer…"

Just as it seemed the confused Wargs were about to regain their charge, the following Orcs caught up with them, and Harry tore the stopper from the phial. In an instant, the mixture within went up in a blaze of fire and smoke. At that same instant, a large part of the battlefield below exploded into a conflagration of such heat and fury that Harry fancied he could feel it even from so far up the 'Azanulzeleg.

At its simplest, it combined the effects of the connected light concoction, and the fiery oil that had proven so effective in the battle at Gundabad. It had not been an easy task, for the ingredients he used for both of those potions did not mix gladly, but the results of his efforts were clear to see. Hundreds of Orcs and Wargs were burned up in moments, and the small group of Dwarves that had baited the enemy into their charge was given the cover needed to make it back to the safety of their lines.

Because of the distance, it was a strange sight to see. The flames exploded in near silence, and by the time the tumultuous sound reached them, shaking the mountainside and sending stones and scree down into the valley below, the worst of the explosion was already past. Then came the distant cries of panic and rage from the gathered Orcs, but despite the many that had just died, more still flooded from the Great Gates.

Soon, the lines clashed, and the true battle began in earnest.

It was a strange thing, Harry thought, to be watching a battle, and yet to be so far from it. In the months of the War he had seen countless battles, and he had always been where the fighting was thickest. Now, it felt like he was little more than a spectator. He could not deny that it rankled him.

Yet it had been the only answer to the possible problem of the Balrog. Harry had argued long that he should be able to stand with Gandalf and Celeborn and Thráin, that his powers would be best used to shore up any unexpected breaches in the line of battle. While Thráin had been quick to support him, his contributions to the earlier battles in the war had after all been undeniable, Celeborn and Gandalf had been the ones to prevail with their arguments.

It was the Balrog that consumed their thoughts. Though the battle may go good or ill without Harry's involvement, there could scarce be any doubt that if both Harry and Gandalf were adrift upon the tide of battle, perhaps left exhausted or injured in the melee of combat, and the Balrog came forth to join the fray, it would surely be a disaster.

So it was that Harry came to be hidden upon the winding and narrow staircase that overlooked the battle. At a crucial moment of the battle they could sweep down from the high slopes to strike the Orcs from behind, and cut off their retreat into endless warrens of Khazad-dûm.

What was unspoken was the reason why Harry had been selected for that task. Should the Balrog choose to come forth, it would be down to Harry to distract it from the greater battle. After all, it had shown more than a passing animosity for Harry, for whatever reason. If there was one person present who might draw the beast's gaze more than any other, surely it was Harry. Only once the battle had been won, and the greatest captains of the combined army could focus their attention on the beast without fear of Orc counter-attack, could they hope to defeat it without grievous casualties.

That, perhaps, went some way to explaining the nervous energy in the young Dwarves who accompanied him. Dáin, Thorin and Balin led some of their most experienced and fearless fighters. It was an auspicious tasking, they all knew, and the cost of failure would be high indeed.

Below, the battle had joined at last. The sudden flames had delayed the Orcs for a short time, but soon the press of bodies, and the rising blood-lust drove them to meet the Dwarvish battle-lines.

Once again, Harry was struck by the strangeness of the scene. From so far above it seemed a wholly more civilised affair than it surely was at ground level. The neat, orderly ranks of Dwarves met their foes with typical Dwarvish steadfastness. The Orcs, little more than ugly black insects crawling across the earth of the valley were met with an immovable wall of Dwarvish steel, and it seemed that that was the end of it.

The shouts of command, the cries of the wounded and dying, the clash of steel upon steel, the thunder of feet upon stone, the stench of filth in the air, the taste of blood on the wind. All of that was absent. It made it hard to imagine the life and death struggle that was being played out on the plain below. It felt wrong. Like he was sending them to die, while he awaited the conclusion, watching from on high.

"They're pushing the centre back!" called Thorin. He pointed to where the sheer press of Orcish bodies was driving the centre of the line backwards step by painful step.

"They will find that avails them little," said Harry. With an outstretched arm he directed Thorin's gaze to the force of Elvish archers who supported the northern flank under the command of the sons of Elrond. With the centre pushed so far back, the Elladan, Elrohir and their small force were able to fire into the side and rear of the Orcs who were engaged there.

Soon, silvery arrows flashed from the mountainside into the Orcs, and hundreds fell before them. The Dwarvish centre stopped its slow retreat, and the southern and northern flanks fell back slowly to support them.

Yet as they retreated, the fires which had covered much of the southern section of the lines flared up once more. From out of the open Gates of Khazad-dûm came a wind, and it smelled of sulphur and fume. As it reached the lingering fires, which had been slowly dying down, it spurred them to new heights of life and fury. In moments, the great wind was driving the flames before it, straight towards the Dwarvish lines.

Cries of horror went up from many of the Dwarves arrayed around Harry. It was clear what power had claimed mastery of those flames.

Durin's Bane had joined the fight. Not in body, not yet, but its power was already being felt. Its slumber was at an end.

Harry's eyes sought for the creature, but they found nothing. From the retreating line of Dwarves a new wind blew up, rising seemingly out of nowhere to push back at the fires which threatened them. Gandalf, once again, Harry realised. While Gandalf's power was able to slow the flames, it could not stop them, and it continued its advance.

"It must be hiding away in the safety of the gate," said Dáin, glaring down at the fires. "What do we do?"

All eyes turned to Harry, and he knew he had to make a choice. The problem was that he did not see a good option. They could not hope to assault the Balrog so close to its place of power. They would be stranded behind the Orc lines, and would surely be overwhelmed. The Orcs were still far too numerous for Harry's relatively small force to hold out.

But if they just sat and waited, hundreds of Dwarves would surely die to the flames, and the breach it would open in the lines would give the Orcs the weakness they needed to turn the tide of the battle.

Seconds stretched out into an eternity, but there was little he could do. He shifted his hand on the staff at his side. Was there some magic he could use that would turn the flames aside? Could he lend strength to Gandalf somehow?

He glanced over at the staff, as if he expected it to hold the answer to Dáin's impossible question. When he did, something else caught his eye. His wand. He'd almost allowed himself to forget it. There was something about the way it seemed to delight in battle which had caused him to shy away from it except in dire need.

Surely this counted as dire need?

When his fingertips brushed the still-rugged wood, he knew there was no other real option. He slid it from its nook in the staff, and rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully. As he did, he stared down at the battle below. The flames' advance was accelerating. He needed to act quickly.

He raised his wand over his head, and released his mind and power into the sky above him. He felt the ponderous, surly clouds hanging overhead. They clung to the mountains with a stubborn obstinacy, unmoved by the winds that often whipped around the high peaks. They shared something of the mountains' cruelty, but it was a more distant, thoughtless malice than had grown within Zirakzigil over the years.

Harry reached out to it, to bring it to his aid as he had brought the winds to him in the Battle of the Cliff. This time, though, they did not answer him. In truth, he had not expected them to answer. That was why he was using his wand, and not his staff.

Instead of shepherding the clouds with concerted thoughts in chorus with his own native power, he instead reached out with his magic to command them. He felt them fight him, but the power within them was nothing compared to his own. Scatha's strength was lent to him fully, then. The dead dragon's love of power and domination brought it to his aid like never before.

The clouds overhead started to turn. Slowly at first, but the speed soon increased at Harry's urging until a maelstrom spun about the highest reaches of Zirakzigil. A bolt of lightning lanced down to smite the ground, the furious rage of the new storm struck at its tormentor. The Dwarves by Harry jumped at the deafening crack, and turned their eyes became wide as they looked skywards.

Then Harry tore his wand back down through the air, and sent the great storm in the direction of the battle.

The storm descended from the high peak like a black avalanche. If fell over the rocks and crags of the mountain in an irresistible tide of wind, and rain, and lightning. From its vast black bulk, thunderbolts reached out from the rapidly descending clouds, and where they touched a great explosion rocked the valley. Harry watched as one hit a tall conifer, which had long grown on the slopes of the mountain, protected from the worst of the elements by the sides of the small gully in which it grew. When the bolt of refulgent power struck it, it was blasted apart in its entirety, and little more than a ruined, splintered trunk was left.

In seconds it fell upon the flames, and smothered them. Paler tendrils mixed into the dark cloud as the fires were drowned, and the ground doused by the heavy cloud. Even as that happened, spidery patterns, nearly blinding in their intensity, flashed across its surface, and it was lit from within by more of the same.

Yet when Harry turned his mind to the dark creature which had been commanding the flames, he found not the impotent rage he had expected, but an amused relish. At that moment, one of the stabbing forks of lightning reached out from the great cloud in the direction of the Dwarvish battle lines.

A flash that for a moment far outshone the weak and hidden sun lit up the valley with such a brilliance that Harry was left blinking the after-images from his eyes. When he was able to see again properly, he was able to pick out the tiny, distant figure of Gandalf, with his own staff held aloft.

Then another bolt struck at another part of the Dwarvish line, but it too was sent back by Gandalf's power. Harry tried to regain his control over the cloud, to bring it back under his will, but it resisted much more strongly this time. He could feel the deep anger, but it was far greater than he'd ever expected.

So great, in fact, that it reminded him of something else. The Balrog.

Another lance of electric fire searched out, even brighter than those that had come before. This time, it struck at Gandalf himself, and a deep, earth-shaking boom shook the valley, and sent ripples over the usually smooth surface of the Mirrormere.

"What in Durin's name was that?" cried Thorin, but Harry couldn't afford to respond.

Every thought, every sense, every muscle was needed to battle the fell power of the Balrog as its rage commanded Harry's own storm against him. Where before the wand's power had been an aid, now it was a shackle. So strong was its desire for domination that it refused to relinquish the power Harry had exerted over the storm cloud.

In a last-ditch effort to break that control, Harry forced new thoughts into the magic. Where before he was commanding through use of anger, fear, and pride, now he brought forth those thoughts that were anathema to those dark emotions.

Happiness, contentment, and friendship. He'd felt the resistance of the wand to those feelings from the moment he'd taken it up, but such was his joy then that he hadn't cared. Now, though, he channelled all the same emotions which were needed for a Patronus into the magic he'd used to harness the storm to his purpose. Almost instantly, he felt the effects.

The fury of the storm almost immediately began to wane. Like the late autumn rainstorms that blew in over Imladris as the leaves turned from lush green to warm, burnished copper and red, which became little more than light showers under the influence of the powers that safeguarded Imladris. Whether it had been a quality of the Elves who had lived there, or if perhaps it had been what drew the Elves there in the first place, Harry knew not. There was little that he remembered as being so peaceful as a walk through the changing woods as a gentle rain beat out soothing music upon the auburn leaves.

Lightening, which had once sought to ruin, now merely crackled across the storm, bringing light, and wonder to all who gazed upon it. It was akin to the rare summer storms which would roll in off those the sea to settle over the Havens of Mithlond. Thin, brilliant tracery flashed across the faces of those storms, and heavy rains thrummed down upon the cozy houses of Círdan's people and Harry remembered the feeling of easy satisfaction he'd felt, staring out at the warm rains are they gave life to the trees and plants which were commonplace all across Lindon.

Finally, the cloud melted away into nothing, until little was left behind but a memory, and a rapidly fading scent of rain.

"What happened?" asked Thorin. "Why did the storm strike at our armies?"

Harry pulled his mind and power back into himself, and looked over at the worried looks shared by all of the Dwarves in his small company.

"The Balrog." He realised his breathing was heavy, and more than a little strained. "It tried to take control of the storm from me. I had to end the spell. It fought, though." He shook his head, trying to clear it of all the foreign sensations and emotions.

"Has it come forth?" Balin asked, peering down at the Great Gates and finding nothing.

"It cowers still," said Dáin, pride laid thick over his words. "It will not face us!"

His words hung in the air for little more than a moment before they were made a lie. A shade gathered and deepened within the distant darkness of the Gate, and malevolent fires burned deep within it. The Balrog had come.

Where it went, the Orcs fled before it. Shadows seemed to cling to the ground about its feet, and fires smouldered upon dead earth wherever it stepped. It paid not a moment's heed to the battle before the gates, and instead its gaze was fixed upon Harry. There was no doubt it knew of him, no matter how carefully Harry and his company had worked to conceal themselves. Even at the great distance, Harry could feel the creature's cruel scrutiny.

More Orcs surged from the gates at the Balrog's back, and charged up the hill towards Harry and his small company. It seemed as if there was no end to Moria's foul denizens.

Realising what was to come, Harry drew his sword, and turned to those who stood with him. "Ready yourselves."

"Bows!" Thorin called to the small company. "Do not let them gain the slopes."

Seconds later, the air was alive with the sounds of arrows whistling through the air down towards the attackers. Dwarves were not known for the ability with the bow, for they tended to be of little use in a subterranean battle. Yet the artifice of their people was not limited to axes and swords alone. Their bows had not the sleek refinement of those of Elvish make, and they tended to be shorter to accommodate the Dwarves' shorter stature, but as a people Dwarves were both strong and stalwart. They had easily enough strength to pull a bowstring, and after the loss of so many of their great Halls, many of them had spread out into the wilds and learned the way of the wilderman.

They would never have the same mastery of that weapon as was enjoyed by many Elves, but in war, accuracy is seldom needed. There was a Dwarvish expression for it: " _'Azafr ishrêd abjubruk mahadrulni thukathuk._ " Like swinging a pick in a mine. You were almost guaranteed to hit something.

Hit the arrows did. The narrow stairs which climbed high up into the Pass could not admit so many, unless they came in single file. The slopes to either side of the Stair was covered in loose scree which made every step both difficult and dangerous. Those who were at the front of the slow charge sent boulders the size of a man's fist, or larger, tumbling down upon those below them. Arrows rained down upon them, so even those lucky enough to be upon the path were able to make scant progress.

Many of them were hit by arrows, and even if the Dwarvish marksmanship was not enough to see them killed outright, more often than not it caused them to lose their footing, and tumble back down the slope over the rough stone. Each felled Orc took perhaps two or three more down as it fell. When they eventually reached the bottom of the slope, few indeed stood back up.

Throughout it all, though, the Balrog advanced with a slow inevitability. It eschewed the Stairs completely, and advanced straight up the slope while all around it, Orcs slid and scrambled over the loose stone. The Balrog's footing, though, was as sure as any Elf's, yet its grace was terrible to behold.

It was clad in armour of flame and darkness, and those arrows which did find their mark simply bounced off without causing the creature so much as a moment's pause. Then one found its mark upon the creature's midnight breastplate and spidery lines of frost spread out from the wound.

A few of Daewen's shafts had been treated with another potion of Harry's creation. It had been difficult to brew, more difficult even than the explosive draught, and he'd only been able to make up a small batch of it, but it was a concentrated and empowered version of the potion which had given the Balrog a momentary pause when Harry had fought it in the dark beneath the mountain.

Yet, even those arrows achieved little. Perhaps the creature's stride broke for half a moment, but in that time the shaft ignited, and the frost evaporated like it had never been there. The slow advance continued.

Then another cry went up, and Harry turned to find more Orcs issuing from a fissure in the stone of the mountain. They were black of skin, and far taller than the Moria Orcs thronging the Valley below. Black Uruks of Mordor. They were not as great in number as those below, but they were perhaps a greater threat.

Their war cries in the foul Black Speech made the air heavy with revulsion as Harry remembered that foul speech from years long past.

"Balin, Thorin!" Harry called out immediately as he shook off those dark memories. "You both must take what warriors you can to stop those Orcs. Protect the archers!"

The two Dwarves did not hesitate. They both drew their weapons, and set to the no doubt bloody task to which Harry had set them.

Harry turned back to his own company, now greatly reduced. "Keep it up!" he cried before he looked down the mountain to see the Balrog had paused, and was looking out of the battle below. He couldn't allow it to intervene.

He looked at Dáin, who had a grim look upon his face. He knew what was needed as well as Harry did. "Do not attempt to fight the beast. You must keep the other Orcs off me."

Before the young Dwarf could object, a sudden stillness fell over the valley, and with it dread settled into the pit of Harry's stomach. The Balrog turned back to him then, and dark amusement burned within the baleful twin fires of the creature's eyes. Then it smote the ground with its firsts, and the entire mountain shook violently.

On the far side of the valley, the Dwarves were being pressed hard, but their formation was holding strong. They'd given a small amount of ground to the endless droves of Orcs, but it was clear that Thráin and his captains were still able to keep good order.

All that was about to change.

The tremors loosed a huge landslide from high upon the flanks of Barazinbar. It hurtled down the steep slopes towards the Dwarvish lines, ready to consume the army whole. Like the storm that Harry had summoned, it swooped down the mountainside, and it scoured every bush and every skeletal tree from the bare rock with its passing.

Harry could do little but watch in horror as an immeasurable weight of earth and wickedly shattered stone descended upon his allies, but as he did, he took his gaze from the Balrog which had resumed its slow advance up the slope. With a great crack of furious sound, a great whip of flame came forth from the beast's dark talons and wrapped around Harry's wand hand.

It burned like liquid fire upon his skin, and when the beast pulled upon it, the strength was impossible to resist. Harry nearly lost his footing when he was pulled from the weathered stairs and onto the same loose scree which had so effectively waylaid the Orcs. He brought his sword up in an attempt to cut the fiery scourge but when it met the dripping fire which was already biting deep into Harry's hand, it was stopped dead.

At that moment, another great explosion of sound washed over him, and despite himself he could not help but glance down into the valley from whence the sound emerged. A sheet of orange fire, brilliant and powerful, had erupted between the landslide and Thráin's army. In the scant seconds Harry had to take in the scene, he saw the lone figure of Gandalf, clothed in flame, with his arms outstretched as if to halt the torrent of stone. His staff was gone, but it was clear his power remained.

The Balrog's attention too had been taken by that display of power. The flame whip loosened about Harry's arm, and he was able to yank it free with a cry of pain. It had burned easily through the cloth of his robe, and the tough leather beneath, leaving the skin of his wrist black and blistered.

In a desperate need to capitalise on the Balrog's brief distraction, Harry flicked his wand and tore a dozen or more heavy boulders from the mountainside. He then sent them towards the fiery creature with enough speed and power to shatter the bones of any mortal Man. Yet, even as they flew, they slowed. Harry felt the grasping power of his magic slip over them, suddenly unable to find purchase as a malign, dark power spread across them. All but one of the stones was pushed aside by the Balrog's power, and the one that did hit it shattered against the blade, wreathed in dark flames, which materialised from the shadows which followed the being.

"You cannot win here!" Harry shouted at the creature, which stared up at him, eyes burning with naked hatred.

It did not respond with words, but instead the fiery whip snaked out once more. This time Harry was able to turn it away, and a near blinding flash of light announced the meeting of their two magics.

The Balrog's eyes, ever terrible, ever inscrutable, narrowed. Then, in less than the blink of an eye, it was upon him. It flew over the broken ground with a haste even Elves could not have hoped to match, and it was only thanks to his many hours spent training with Glorfindel that Harry was able to turn aside the Balrog's strike.

The strength of the attack sent Harry back two steps, but through some miracle he was able to keep his footing. When another attack came, close upon the heels of the first, and a third followed that with barely a pause, Harry began to regret that he had trained with Daewen and Glorfindel only sporadically, and seldom indeed in recent years. It had simply seemed unnecessary when the greatest threat he faced on his travels could be easily dealt with through the simplest of magics.

Another heavy blow descended, and sent waves of pain up Harry's sword arm as he turned it aside. With his other hand, Harry brandished his wand, and threw the stone beneath the Balrog's feet down the mountain with a shout. Perhaps his counter attack was unexpected, for the creature was taken by surprise, and hurled down the mountainside until it came to rest near the bottom.

It was not dead, though. If anything, its visage grew more terrible. Features curved and contorted such that its face was barely recognisable as humanlike any more. All that was really recognisable were the burning eyes, and even at a distance, Harry could feel the heat of them upon him.

Then the valley was filled with the sound of horns, and Harry looked up to see a line of cavalry under the white stag banner of Haleth bearing down upon the Balrog. At the forefront of the charge was Haleth himself, and with him was most of what remained of his mounted household guard. They were bloodied, and their horses were slick with sweat and covered in blood and mud, but their battlecry was strong and fearless.

Behind them, it was clear that the battle was starting to turn in favour of the Dwarves and their allies. The failed attempt to collapse much of the mountainside upon the allied army had left the Orcish forces uncertain. Where they had expected to meet a battered foe, with most of their army crushed beneath falling rubble, they instead were fighting a well practiced army.

That had been all Haleth's riders had needed to be able to punch through the enemy's lines, but Harry knew it would aid them little in battle with the ancient evil of the Balrog. Durin's Bane had, alone, brought low one of the greatest cities Middle-earth had ever seen.

Harry started charging down the hill towards the Balrog. What he would do when he reached it, he was not sure, but he knew he could not allow Haleth and his riders to face the beast alone. More than once, the loose rocky scree shifted beneath his feet and he nearly lost his footing as the stones tumbled down the slope ahead of him. Behind him, he heard Dáin and many other Dwarves joining the charge despite his earlier orders.

The few Orcs that were still trying to gain the mountainside stood little chance as Harry and the Dwarves descended upon them. Sword and axe cleaved through armour and bone with ease, and those who survived were bowled over by the unstoppable momentum.

Even with the frantic pace Harry set, it was not fast enough. Haleth's charge was met by the sword and lash of the Balrog, and the result was terrible to behold. The whip snaked out and became wrapped around the forelegs of one of the horses. The horse's cry of fear and pain was short lived as it was then yanked to the side, toppling end over end as it did so. As it fell, it brought down the horse next to it, and another two which were riding close behind.

Then, when the first of the riders reached the Balrog, it stepped past their spears with an inhuman agility, and the blade of dark fire in its hand cleaved through flesh, sinew and bone with abhorrent ease. The stench of burned meat filled the air, and more of Haleth's men were felled. With every death, it seemed as if the fire within the Balrog's eyes grew stronger, and the shadows which followed it became deeper until it was walking in a pool of darkness.

At last, Harry fell upon his enemy. He leapt high, and swung his black blade with all the ferocity he could muster. Even as he was in the air, the Balrog turned, and raised its own sword to block Harry's attack. The power of the sweeping block sent Harry tumbling over the rough ground.

Before Harry was able to regain his feet, his body bruised and bleeding, Durin's Bane was upon him again. Just as another blow was about to fall, the creature let out a deafening roar. Haleth, King of the Riddermark, his armour covered in black blood and one arm hanging useless at his side, had thrust his sword, Herugrim, into the flank of the Balrog.

The Balrog's furious backhand surely killed the King instantly, and sent his broken body flying through the air like little more than a broken doll. Then it pulled the sword from its side. The blade was already beginning to melt, and when it was dropped to the ground it was glowing white hot, and the grip was aflame.

Harry did not let the opening go unused. Anguirel cut a deep furrow in the Balrog's leg, yet the beast did not fall. Bright, orange blood, like liquid fire dripped from the wound and sizzled upon the ground, but the creature cared not for the wound. Rage burned strong in its eyes, as it grasped Harry's sword in one talon-like hand, and tore it from his grip.

Just as it was about to plunge Harry's own sword into his chest, it was turned aside. With a familiar Dwarvish warcry, Dáin had arrived. His desperate block turned the blade aside, but Harry saw Anguirel bite deep into the blade of Dáin's axe.

Despite Dáin's courage and strength, he stood little chance against the ancient evil of the Balrog. Even before Harry had regained his feet Dáin had been cut down, his axe shattered, and his helm cleft in two.

All around them, other Dwarves joined battle with newly arrived Goblins, who had been pursuing Haleth's riders after they broke the lines. They were meagre things, compared to the Orcs of Moria, or the Great Orcs which had been laying in ambush upon the Pass. They were some of the thousands which had fled before the wrath of the allied army. Though they were numerous, they were mastered by fear, and left a broad empty space around both Harry and the Balrog.

A surge of raw magic, empowered by Harry's own fury, should have ended it there, and yet it seemed to only strengthen the Balrog further. It seemed to grow taller, move faster, and the shadows which followed it became deeper still, until it walked atop starless midnight. Harry retreated before it, and a low rumbling sound issued from the creature.

" _Fira, alastaldo,_ " it said as it slashed once more at Harry, only to miss by the narrowest of margins when Harry threw himself backwards.

Then Thorin stood between Harry and the creature, and a grim look was upon his brow. He swung at the Balrog's legs, now hidden completely in shadow and only betrayed by the fire that occasionally played across them. His strike was blocked with ease, and his axe was hewn asunder, but he did not falter. A throwing axe came into his hand, and he cast it at the greatest enemy of his ancestors where it struck true upon the beast's breast.

His imagined victory lasted less than a heartbeat, for the Balrog did not so much as pause as more fiery blood leaked from its newest wound. It brought its blade down once more, and that surely would have been the end of it had Harry not intervened.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

For a moment the darkness which leaked off the Balrog was driven back as the starlight stag erupted from the tip of Harry's wand, and Harry felt hope bloom for the first time since he had felt the Balrog's regard.

Yet it was too soon snuffed out.

A deep sound, as unsettling as a warped melody issued from the creature as the darkness around it deepened once more. Then the Balrog spoke again: " _Nain unqualë huinyë. Nain oiumbar. Á hehta estelya laistila. Effírië lá aistëa cali, ammátas sa._ "

The words, had they been spoken by the tongue of an Elf, would surely have been of surpassing beauty, and yet from the Balrog they were fearsome. So warped, by the creature's foul nature were they, that Harry could scarce imagine them to be of a tongue which was spoken by the Eldar, but still he recognised the sound of it, if not the words. Quenya, yet twisted to such foulness and hatred by the mind that spoke it so that what once could have been beautiful was abhorrent.

And with a broad sweep of its blackfire sword, the Balrog banished Harry's guttering patronus, and with it the flickering embers of Harry's hope for victory died too.

Yet even as his hope dwindled, Daewen joined the fray. Her twin short blades were leaping quicksilver in her hands, their speed so great as she struck at their foe that Harry could barely follow them. She succeeded in driving the Balrog back another step, and more than once her blades cut at the creature until it was bleeding from a dozen small wounds, its fiery blood sizzling upon the sparse grass.

In his mind's eye, she shone bright against the darkness, but Harry knew she alone could not defeat it. Despite the protestation of his battered body, he drew himself up, and summoned his Anguirel back into his hand. He then raced across the scarred and scorched ground to join Daewen in her attack.

Together, they pushed it back further. Working in tandem, long battlefield experience allowed each to know the other's next move by instinct alone. Harry blocked a strike which would have cleaved Daewen's head from her shoulders, and she stopped another which would have cut through Harry's arm as he over-extended on his own attempted strike. Step by painful step, the Balrog retreated before them, but never did their swords strike true in the creature's shadowy flesh.

Then, Harry's foot twisted beneath him as his footing went awry on the rough, broken soil and stone. He felt something tear within his ankle, and pain bloomed as he fell to his knee. The Balrog's next attack flew clear over his head, and cut deep into Daewen's flesh, opening a wide, bloody gash in her side.

It was only the fact that she had started turning to Harry as he fell which saved her from an instant death, but it was not by much. She fell to the ground clutching at her wounded side, and dropped her twin knives upon the earth and her blood quickly began to seep into the thin soil.

There would be no respite from their enemy, and another blow trailed right behind the last, but with a desperate cry of wordless courage, Thorin jumped forward to meet it. Somehow, incredibly, the steel of whatever Dwarvish sword he'd been able to salvage stood up to the blow, though it drove Thorin to his knees. The Balrog's other hand darted out and gripped Thorin's neck in wicked talons. Then, there came upon its features a look of comprehension, and twisted pleasure.

" _Durinion._ " The smile grew wider as Thorin struggled helplessly against the iron grip. " _Fira!_ "

Harry pushed himself back to his feet, but before he could make any kind of attack, The Balrog snapped Thorin's neck like it was little more than a twig, and threw the Dwarf Prince's body straight at Harry, bowling him over to land next to Daewen.

Before he could escape from beneath Thorin's weight, the Balrog was upon them again, moving with supernatural speed. The terrible blade cut a path of black fire through the air as it descended towards Harry but it was turned aside when Harry conjured a desperate shield of purest white light, borne not of hope, but instead Harry's own desperate need to protect, and which painted their contest in stark shades. A high, keening sound filled Harry's ears as the Balrog pressed harder and harder into the protections, and the dark, fiery edge of its sword slowly started to push through the rapidly wavering shield.

Then, Harry's light was joined by another. Gandalf was there, and beside him was Celeborn of the Golden Wood. Gandalf's robes were torn and blackened, his staff was gone. He was covered in blood and cuts, and though his gaze was steadfast, there was an unseen weight which lay heavy upon his shoulders.

Celeborn also was showing the trials of the battle. His armour was dented and muddied, his helm had been lost, and his silver hair was caked with blood. Black Orcish blood dripped from the blade of his sword, and fouled the earth where it fell.

The Balrog was cast backwards, and Harry felt the crushing presence release him, and allowed his shield to flicker and die. As Gandalf and Celeborn, supported by many more Dwarves, Men and Elves, pursued the Balrog, Harry scrambled across the ground to where Daewen lay, unmoving.

He took her limp body into his lap, and grasped her hand with his own. It was as cold as the touch of winter, and yet he could feel that she was not yet wholly gone. Even in the coldest depths of winter, life yet lingered, clinging to meagre, frozen earth. A ripple of hope cut through his numbness, and he met her eyes. Life was still in them, and they looked up at him in desperate pain.

She was not dead, and she would not die. Harry would not permit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooft. This took a little longer than I'd have liked, but then it's also actually a little longer than I planned, so I guess that's a wash? Also, family illness meant my drive to write was somewhat reduced this month. It's not life threatening, but hopefully things will be a little better going forward. There are a few little bits of lore- and language-bits to cover.
> 
> 'Azanulzeleg = Dimrill Stair
> 
> Nain unqualë huinyë. Nain oiumbar. Á hehta estelya laistila. Effírië lá aistëa cali, ammátas sa. = I am torment, and darkness. I am doom, everlasting. Abandon your foolish hope. Death does not fear the light, it consumes it.
> 
> Quenya is fairly complex, and I'm no expert in it, but the construction is as follows:  
> na = to be → Nain = I am  
> unqualë = agony/death  
> huinë = Darkness, shadow + -yë = and  
> umbar = doom/fate + oi- = everlasting  
> hehta = to abandon → Á hehta = Abandon (command)  
> estel = hope + -ya = your hope  
> laistila = ignorant  
> effírië = Death  
> aista = to dread → lá aistëa = does not dread  
> cala = light - cali = the light  
> ammat = to devour → ammátas = it devours  
> sa = it.
> 
> As before, I have elected to use Quenya for the Balrog as the options are Quenya, Valarin, 'Melkian', or pure thought-speech. Valarin is tricky as not only are there only maybe 20 attested words (or word fragments) to work with, it's also literally a language spoken by beings with a very different experience of the world to humans. I'd have to invent pretty much wholesale to make it usable, and I don't think I'd be able to do it justice. Melkian is even worse off. Not only is it a largely abandoned idea, but it has no words to work from, and was based on Valarin. Black Speech is a later invention by Sauron, but Melkian was effectively Melkor's Black Speech. In the end Tolkien decided against it, I think because Melkor was a master of tongues anyway already. Thought speech is just tricky to work with at the best of times, and making it work from the mind of an immortal fallen maiar was a tall order. So Quenya it was.

**Author's Note:**

> I won't be providing translations for the Black Speech segments (Glorfindel already did a good job). For anyone wondering Black Speech was not well defined by Tolkien in any of his writings as he deliberately created it to be 'insulting to the senses' and wanted very little to do with it after creating the Ring-verse. Thus I am using the neo-Black Speech from The Land of Shadow website (now sadly defunct). There are little bits left untranslated by Glorfindel but they're pretty unimportant.


End file.
